Don’t worry, we’re as surprised as you are. When the marketing materials for Sir Ridley Scott’s glitzy + glamorous House of Gucci was first unveiled last year – a film which appeared to be positively brimming with cinematic potential – the idea of penning a negative review wasn’t even remotely within the realm of possibilities. On paper, it had all the guarantees of a surefire winner. Yet here I am. Here to warn the digital villagers of a sinister monstrosity lurking in the carpeted halls of every Event Cinemas.
To say I hated what Ridley Scott served up for us this time around would be inaccurate. “Hate” would imply I felt strongly about it, and that was precisely the issue. I didn’t experience any shade of emotion that could be deemed strong. Quite the opposite. The entire experience was comparable to a lobotomy, eliciting the occasional eye roll between stretches of tedium whenever Jared Leto’s cartoonish Paolo Gucci bumbled into frame so he could ostensibly audition for the upcoming Super Mario Bros. adaptation (gunning to voice Luigi opposite Chris Pratt’s Mario, I can only assume).
It would, however, be unfair assigning all the blame to Jared Leto. A recurring thought I found myself having was, “Wait… aren’t these people meant to be good actors?” While Adam Driver and Jeremy Irons fulfilled their respective roles as Maurizio and Rodolfo Gucci, Al Pacino offered his most dimensionless effort yet as family patriarch Aldo; and contrary to the hype, Lady Gaga proved rather unremarkable as The Black Widow herself, Patrizia Reggiani – patchy accent and all. Oscar contention? Where? How? Perhaps that’s the real reason why the Gucci family was so upset. Not due to being depicted in an unfavourable light, but because they were barely depicted as actual human beings, period.
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The greatest crime committed by this murder story, as you will have gathered by now, was the fact it was just so fucking boring. Easily the most bewildering aspect of this entirely superficial affair. How in the name of the Father, Son, and House of Gucci do you butcher an inherently fascinating assassination tale over a prolific fashion empire – manned by larger-than-life dramatic talents, no less – and make it feel like an absolute chore?
The answer lies in its poorly adapted screenplay, accomplished by culprits Roberto Bentivegna and Becky Johnson. And that’s before we factor in historical accuracy, which I can understand sacrificing for screen impact. Dialogue… characterisation… pacing (dear lord, the pacing dragged)… it failed every possible criterion. You may find the sole element that captivates your attention is the gorgeously authentic costume design. As well as whatever hilariously questionable acting choice Leto went with. All style, zero substance.
I wish I could offer you a complete review, I honestly do. But after enduring the first hour, I decided I wouldn’t subject myself to the remaining hour + forty minutes, and vacated the premises – escaping this literal and metaphorical room clearer to watch clips of Brad Pitt speaking Jamaican patois in Meet Joe Black while shvitzing on my fold-out couch. Infinitely more entertaining and strangely far less offensive. Blame it on the phones if you want, Ridley. We know the truth. We deserve better. Much better.
As for everyone else: save yourself the $24.50 and lost time.
Now that you’ve read our House of Gucci review, check out what we thought about Denis Villeneuve’s Dune here.
