Here is another I would have probably skipped and I’m glad some obscure pre-festive mood made me not.
On the one hand The House of Gucci is not just a house of impressions but one of caricatures. In fact, it’s not even just a house but a tent, a proper big top with clowns in it. On the other hand, and right because of all the above, Ridley Scott’s detour into bourgeois family hell is also a greatly entertaining film. And if Al Pacino and the masterfully disguised Jared Leto bring the ironic element to the extent of farse, I must admit I couldn’t wait for them to be on screen. Overall the portrait of the Gucci family might be unflattering and certainly not quite tactful considering the sad unfolding of the events, but it’s hilarious and nicely cinematically rendered.
Passing over a few cheesily catchy dialogues (did I really hear Lady Gaga and Adam Driver exchange the lines, ‘I didn’t realise I married a monster.’ / ‘No, you married a Gucci.’?) The House of Gucci’s main flaw is a common one of biopics to pursue more facts, however juicy, than characters. The result is a story told by a relatively one-dimensional and unloved ensemble of misfits in which the most likeable seem to be marginal figures such as that of a greedy Iraqi financier and a rising star designer. But Tom Ford, no surprise, is shining in any incarnation.