House of Gucci
directed by Ridley Scott
starring Lady Gaga, Adam Driver, Al Pacino, Jeremy Irons, Jared Leto
Oh! to be a gold digger, a social climber, an arriviste with a taste for the finer things. To possess such a burning sense of entitlement that it fuels the ability to manipulate others and bend them to your will. I wasn't born with those genes, apparently. But for Patrizia Reggiani, a truck driver's daughter who married Maurizio, the scion of the Gucci fashion house in 1979, these attributes came all too naturally and proved to be her Achilles heel.
House of Gucci is (purportedly) a true story, a sad story, but not an altogether unfamiliar story. The somewhat naive young man of means (Maurizo Gucci, played by Adam Driver) falls in love with a brash young girl from the working class (Lady Gaga). They marry over the father's objections, and now the ambitious young wife pushes her husband into grabbing more and more power within the family business -- through both legal and below-board means involving the sale and ownership of shares. With the husband's success come inevitable resentments and recriminations: His once beloved family members -- most notably his uncle (Al Pacino) and cousin (Jared Leto, in heavy prosthetics), as well as his father (Jeremy Irons) -- are betrayed, estranged and ultimately disenfranchised. The husband, who does elevate the brand with new style and new energy, bringing in designer Tom Ford, becomes drunk with power and goes on a spending spree that imperils the financial wellbeing of the company.
The husband also indulges in a blonde mistress, who is nothing like The Missus, who has evolved into a nagging, jealous, manipulative, emotionally volatile problem whom he has come to disdain. A ski lodge scene where he mildly but pointedly belittles her in front of his bourgeois friends seems the beginning of the end. In a stunningly matter-of-fact and unanticipated move that may be common to the elite, Maurizio leaves for a business trip and simply never returns.
Oh Italy, land of passion and Amore, Amore! Of chest-pounding operatic declarations and the deep-seated dark traditions of vendettas! Patrizia is Italian to her core and Drama is her middle name. Now a mother, she will not be forgotten, dismissed, or disregarded (I'm not going to be IGNORED, Dan!). Despite the fact that Maurizio is willing to make a clean break and give her financial support, Patrizia is of the "If I Can't Have Him, No One Will" school. In a heartrending scene where she follows Maurizio to his apartment with an album of family photos and begs him to return to her, a cold Maurizio refuses to engage and closes the door in her face.
In these moments, an Italian diva wife's thoughts turn, naturally, to ... murder for hire. Through her friendship with a popular TV psychic and fortune teller, played by Salma Hayek, Patrizia orders up a hit as though ordering delivery pizza. The Sicilian hitmen prove more capable than they appear, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Lady Gaga does wonders with this role, letting us see the insecurity and vulnerability driving Patrizia's desire for more power, more status, and more love. And as scheming a character as she is, Gaga also gives her a well of childish naivete, as in her belief that the fairy tale should rightfully be hers. There's a fearlessness to her ability to embody this woman, so that when she loves, we feel her joy, when she smolders, we feel her sting, and when she is threatened, we feel the enormity and inherent danger of her desperation. On the surface, Patrizia is beautiful, sharp, and engaging; Gaga's charm works so we see how easily but stealthily she insinuates herself into the confidence of Maurizio's uncle Aldo, co-founding partner of the Gucci empire, and his son, frustrated designer Paolo, before getting her husband to stab them in the back.
I love Adam Driver as an actor, and he looks damn good in the 1970s feathered hair, designer suits, and squared off aviator glasses, but Maurizio is a coddled, mild-mannered, self-centered character in director Ridley Scott's version of things, so his performance is mostly low-key. The other cast members revel in their chance to employ florid Italian accents and talk with their hands. Jared Leto, almost unrecognizable under makeup and a frizzy half-bald pate, seems to be in another movie altogether, taking his character's lunkheadedness and whining self-pity to parodic levels.
As a film, this is a standard tale of love gone wrong at the highest level of society, nothing more than a Milanese-set episode of "Snapped." I wouldn't call it a Must See movie, but it's not bad, more notable for reviving a famous murder case and stirring up bad feelings among the remaining Guccis and others who say that the film is far from accurate.
Accurate or not, House of Gucci is really House of Gaga -- a showcase for Stephanie Germanotta's prodigious talents as a screen actress. And I say: Brava, Gaga!
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