House of Gucci (2021)

Score: 5 / 5

For the second time this year: God bless Ridley Scott. Not only did he provide us with two of the best movies of the year (along with The Last Duel), they are also completely aesthetically and tonally different, proving himself yet again a master of the craft. Willing to change his style to fit the story he's telling, Scott is this time engaged in high fashion and high crimes. Not unlike his exploration of class, family, and wealth in the Getty dynasty (All the Money in the World), he is keenly interested in fraying lines of loyalty and dissolution of civility when powerful families are put under the pressure of greed. This isn't American Crime Story: The Assassination of Gianni Versace, but I wondered more than once if Scott had viewed Ryan Murphy's similarly sweeping, campy study of murder in an Italian fashion family. Whereas that miniseries delved into dark secrets and an outsider preying on insiders, House of Gucci works more as a soap opera.

Based on the book of the same title, the sensationalist story only works with the flamboyance and larger-than-life perspective we'd expect. As such, Scott and writer Becky Johnston work hard to make this movie an assault on our senses. The cinematography by frequent Scott collaborator Dariusz Wolski (also of Pirates of the Caribbean, The Crow, The Walk, News of the World) affords us luxurious views of impossible places, doused with warm light and vibrant colors. Music by Harry Gregson-Williams sweeps us into sumptuous highs before the film's abundant soundtrack of Italian pop or opera jumps to the next loud track. Costumer Janty Yates dresses the players in unbelievable outfits and ridiculous hues, clearly enabling them to do their thing in style if not comfort; the costumes also clearly inform our perception of the characters (and doubtless informed the actors' performances as well), as certain characters become notably animalistic in their devolution.

One wonders how much the stylized nature of this film was planned in advance by Scott and his team, or if it was primarily the result of casting choices. One can hardly expect a film with this starring lineup to be dull, but each major player seems handpicked based on their reliably campy deliveries elsewhere. Obviously any discussion of this movie will begin and end with the glorious Lady Gaga, whose fierce performance as Patrizia Reggiani is an unholy cross between technically proficient chameleonic acting and cheap dive bar drag. Patrizia, a willful and conniving working-class woman who stalks and falls in love with Maurizio Gucci (a less volcanic but no less intentionally wry Adam Driver), weasels her way into the family business to make something of herself. Or, perhaps, for herself. Her lack of high society manners is shamed by Maurizio's ailing father Rodolfo (an oddly stiff Jeremy Irons, not long for the world of this film) but welcomed by his commercially-minded salesman uncle Aldo (Al Pacino doing what he does best).

Like Aldo, Patrizia wants more money and to boost Gucci's international market. Redirecting Maurizio away from law school, she charges headfirst into the flailing family and attacks its weak spots. Namely, and most obviously, Aldo's flamboyant and absurd son Paolo, played by an unrecognizable and utterly arresting Jared Leto. With no taste or talent, he's the lone guppy in a sea of sharks, and Leto capitalizes on this, turning the character into a kitsch king as unaware as he is repulsive. Oh, and who can forget Salma Hayek's scenes as Patrizia's friend and psychic, Pina, who guides Patrizia through her feelings of desire, lust, fear, and greed in increasingly practical ways. She's hilarious as a naïve and unassuming fortune-teller, then a little disturbing as she cultivates Patrizia's dependency; not unlike the sisters in Macbeth, one wonders if Pina isn't enabling her friend rather than simply supporting her.

The first half of the film is radiant, bubbling, and darkly humorous in its foreshadowing, crowned by a brilliant and jaw-dropping sex scene that epitomizes much of the proceedings. The second half leans less into camp and more into crime drama, not unlike The Godfather I suppose, with a tighter focus on Maurizio's maturing attitude toward taking over the family business. Like the aforementioned Scottish king, he seems to have swallowed the Kool-Aid, to mix potent and relevant cultural touchpoints, and Driver's potential for danger oozes out from his impeccable suits (I will maintain that he has never looked better). And in this tonal transition, the film delivers on every single one of its promises. It's a messy, brazen, glamorous cocktail of sin and style, as audacious in its faith to storytelling as it is to its own sickly beauty. And thanks to Scott's tried-and-true direction, it's one of the best movies of the year.