One would like to go into House of Gucci with an open mind, of course. And yet, it’s a challenge to do so when any praise showered upon it just seems too incongruous to bother with throwing it any further undeserved bones. Ah, and speaking of carcasses, it seems that Ridley Scott and his cast have no issue picking from the already decimated flesh of the Gucci family. How else could such a bastardization be explained? Not only of the Italian accent itself, but the elaborate saga that turned Gucci from a family-run company into one represented solely by corporate interests.
But glossing over an important message about how family and business don’t mix (just look at Britney Spears, recently caught worshipping Lady Gaga like some kind of god, and her own famiglia) is only scratching the surface of all that is wrong with House of Gucci. Allotted two hours and thirty-seven minutes to make the tale into the true epic it is, time is squandered (to the point where there’s not even a token opening scene of Guccio Gucci in London) instead on giving Lady Gaga’s interpretation of Patrizia Reggiani as many opportunities as possible to sound like a caricature. Honestly, it was as though Gaga studied her accent from Justin Chambers as Massimo in The Wedding Planner. Because, apparently, people think you need to sound as though you have a head injury in order to provide an “authentic” Italian accent. However, Gaga is not to be outdone by her co-stars, including Jared Leto as Paulo Gucci, Adam Driver as Maurizio Gucci and Al Pacino as Aldo Gucci. Leto is obviously the most affronting of all, playing up the buffoon angle that audiences love to see from an “Italian.” Looking better-equipped to handle a role in a live action Super Mario Bros. movie, at least one can say he sustains the same accent for the entire movie. Driver, on the other hand, drops it at random, seeming to grow as bored with this project as any sensible viewer watching it is.
In addition to giving Reggiani far more credit than is deserved for her involvement in the downfall of Gucci, screenwriters Becky Johnston and Roberto Bentivegna (British, by the way) also devote far too many frames to a so-called “New York story.” Bentivegna, who seems to have been tapped to write this script for the sole benefit of having some kind of “bona fide Italian ‘sanction’” in the credits, has very little else under his professional belt, apart from a slew of short films. As for Johnston, she’s no stranger to the Razzie Awards after writing the Prince-starring Under the Cherry Moon. And yet, even that has more cultural value than House of Gucci, deserving of a Razzie for the lines, “It’s time to take out the trash” and “Father, son and House of Gucci” alone.
For the sake of “glamorizing” the story, one supposes, the “New York years” of Maurizio and Patrizia are focused on, falsely parading the idea that it was Aldo who gave them a luxury apartment, when, in fact, it was Maurizio’s father, Rodolfo (played, inexplicably, by Englishman Jeremy Irons). And, even for all this posturing about getting them to New York, the story lags here as well, not even bothering to show any scenes of Reggiani hosting parties or mingling with the likes of Jackie Onassis.
“Everybody loves New York,” Patrizia insists before they end up going there. Maurizio responds, “I don’t.” That statement alone probably makes him the most sympathetic character of this “biopic.” One that, in many ways, counts on the viewer to already be informed of certain background stories in order to “catch on” to the slapdash structure, which only occasionally offers year reference points, indicating we’re in a flashback to 1978 after the first scene we’re shown of Maurizio about to get shot. For whatever reason, this is the year we’re made to believe the two met, even though they were married by 1972. Obviously, the writers wanted to get straight to the carne of the scandals that transpired among the Gucci family throughout the 80s.
Gradually, a lack of concern for helping the viewer understand anything about what time we’re in is made apparent as, all at once, we’re in the Tom Ford years of Gucci. This portion of the script feels particularly rushed, as though Johnston and Bentivegna suddenly realized they used way too much of their structure allotment on fuck-all. They couldn’t even be bothered to mention that Maurizio and Patrizia had a second daughter named Allegra after their first, Alessandra. It all just seems so arbitrary, therefore, once again, created as a vehicle for the sole benefit of Lady Gaga and her “acting chops.”
At one point, Aldo parrots the slogan, “Quality is remembered long after price is forgotten.” It’s a line that will go over most viewers’ heads as Gucci’s first global “catchphrase.” An aphorism that is unfortunately untrue in today’s world. Particularly when considering there are many critics and easily dazzled moviegoers who see House of Gucci as a “triumph,” making one want to repurpose that above statement into the following: “Shit is glorified long after quality is forgotten.”
Even the attempt on the part of certain reviews to paint this film as a “satire” on social climbing and greed is a reach that cannot dig it out of the hole beneath a pile of trash in a landfill where it belongs. Seeming to want to rely on being seen as a Ryan Murphy-style project when it isn’t taken entirely “seriously,” House of Gucci doesn’t even manage to reach that tier of schlock, try as it might to cover shit in glitter with “glossy scenes” and a soundtrack highlighting hits of the day (George Michael’s “Faith,” for whatever reason, plays during their wedding ceremony despite the fact that the song wasn’t even out until 1987, long after Maurizio and Patrizia were married).
House of Gucci is also certain to lean into “satire” as an excuse by painting Patrizia as the one who pursued Maurizio when, in fact, he was very much interested in her when they first met at a party (nothing like the one portrayed in the movie, obviously). Indeed, Patrizia was even engaged at the time, later remarking, “At the beginning, I did not like him at all. I was engaged to somebody else. But when I broke off with my fiancé, Vittoria revealed to me that Maurizio was deeply in love with me—so little by little, everything started. He is the man I loved most despite what he became after all his mistakes.”
Another botched presentation of plot comes when we’re shown a scene of Maurizio and Patrizia learning that his father failed to sign the required papers for him to receive his inheritance without being grossly taxed by the Italian government. In reality, Patrizia wasn’t even there at the time of Maurizio’s revelation, and it was he who acted alone in forging the signature, later leading to the Guardia di Finanza’s pursuit of him—in turn leading to his swift departure for the Swiss border where he could hide out until a solution arose. In the film, this is cursorily explained as well before, all at once, we’re loosely introduced to the Investcorp part of the program. Then again, nothing about House of Gucci‘s interpretation of what went down should come as a shock when we see Patrizia meeting Pina (Salma Hayek, another prime example of horrific casting for the purposes of showcasing an accent, any accent) through a psychic network hotline. The film also fails to mention how Pina might come to be in contact with a pair of hitmen, therefore avoiding just one stereotype about Italians: that everybody from Naples has mafia ties.
To be fair, the Gucci saga is an extremely story-heavy one, packed with many details that are easy to pick and choose from when rendered into a film format. However, the screenwriters are so lax for no apparent reason other than appearing to be too daunted by the material to bother with much in the way of attention to detail. To that end, Johnston and Bentivegna can’t even get right the spelling of the word Patrizia put in her diary on the day of Maurizio’s murder, changing it from “paradeisos” to “paradiso.”
Lady Gaga’s “acting” throughout House of Gucci remains strictly well-suited to the Ryan Murphy School of Camp (and, yes, one wishes she had just stayed in The Cortez of American Horror Story: Hotel). And, in truth, it makes one wonder how Madonna’s acting style could possibly be deemed any worse than what’s going on here (sidebar: a remake of Death Becomes Her starring Madonna—who, frankly, might have used the potion from the movie—and Lady Gaga trying to out-camp one another could actually be the panacea the world needs).
Also noticeably missing as a key character in turning the Gucci brand around is Dawn Mello, the former president of Bergdorf Goodman that Maurizio hand-picked to help change the brand’s image. Under her guidance, the number of Gucci stores in existence was dramatically slashed in a bid to bring exclusivity back to the name. Perhaps her omission from the plot is just another way in which women who actually do contribute something meaningful are cast aside in favor of the ones who simply act “crazy.”
While many will say, “Oh calm down, the movie’s just a bit of frothy fun,” it should be remembered that there are people who will go to this movie and genuinely think it’s an authentic rendering of Italians and their culture. Audience members in khakis and salmon collared shirts will muse to themselves—while a psychotic woman orchestrates her ex-husband’s death—“Wow, I’d sure like to book a trip to Italy,” convinced it’s all fashion and “passion.” Would that anybody in America could be awakened to the idea that far more than that lies beneath the surface stereotype. Complete with accents picked out of the proverbial Super Mario blender. And what’s worse still is that many Italians are self-conscious enough already about speaking English because of how they’re judged without Americans trying to egregiously mimic their accent and make that self-consciousness all the worse. In effect, House of Gucci is little more than a competition of actors with no business being part of this project trying to outdo each other with their bad accents, all under the pretense of touting how much time they spent studying it in order to “do justice.”
On this note, why was it even necessary to incorporate random Italian phrases into the dialogue, further adding to the lack of cohesion of it all? Either make the fucking movie in Italian with proper Italian actors or just speak in English without the “fanfare” of trying to put on an accent… and for the sake of what? An Academy nomination? And all at the expense of further denigrating the American perception of Italians as perpetuated by Italian Americans.
