House of Gucci: Neon NZ Movie Review

From its animalistic sex scene atop on an office table on a construction site to its laughably insulting Italian accents that at times feel like they're from 80s UK sitcom 'Allo 'Allo, Ridley Scott's House of Gucci is a high serving of cheese with a side order of tonal disorder to feed proceedings.

Driver plays Maurizio Gucci, the ostracised heir of the Gucci family business, who's cast aside when he begins a relationship with Lady Gaga's Patrizia Reggiani. With his disapproving father (an increasingly gaunt and almost vampiric Irons, replete with sunken cheeks and sallow eyes) in the rear view mirror, Maurizio forges a more normal life. 

But Patrizia believes he's entitled to his birthright, and begins to whisper in his ear about power grabs, leading Maurizio into the world he once shunned and the family fights he wanted to avoid.

High on melodrama, draped in elements of camp, House of Gucci's 160 minutes outing is the kind of film that used to be labelled with the word "folly" and all those within condemned to be part of a cult classic for years to come. But as it oscillates between high soap opera and revenge drama, Scott fails to find a balance to walk the two, leaving it more squarely in the kind of territory that renders it neither fish nor fowl.

It doesn't help that Adam Driver is playing a straight dramatic lead in a film that's not straight at all; equally, Lady Gaga's spirited and fiery performance as the ambitious Patrizia keeps the cylinders firing in a film that they deserve better from. 

Jared Leto's weaselly, eccentric and crazed Paulo Gucci is the perfect example of what House of Gucci does right - and wrong. With an accent that woulda makea your momma blush, his Paulo is the kind of figure that should have been the tragic heart of the film; a character whose descent into irrelevance from the betrayal of others around him in the world of excess would have fuelled a film alone. But he emerges as a figure of comedic fun, fuelled by a rift powered by his father (an OTT, blusterous Al Pacino) - a clear sign that Scott and the script are less interested in depth, and more keen on shallow character once overs.

That's some of the problem with the House of Gucci. 

Despite all the 80s music cues and the occasionally eye-dropping couture, the character beats feel off - even for a 160 minute film. Developments occur because the director and writers feel they should, rather than a naturalistic build of dramatic resonance.

Ultimately, the House of Gucci is a film that feels like it's going to cement its place in history. There will be fevered fans of its fripperies and vehement deniers of any of its charms - but it will be director Ridley Scott who emerges from the House of Gucci with his reputation sullied. It's a film of tonal mistakes, a film of confused identity and a film which may long term hurt its director most of all.