American Gigolo - 1980
"Just. One. Fuck."
For as long as I can remember, Blondie's "Call Me" has been a totally anthemic cruising song. Now, at last, as I watched Richard Gere riding down the PCH with it blasting and throbbing along in multiple scenes, it all clicked into place. As a matter of fact, this vibe, this atmosphere is really the best thing American Gigolo has going.
It is almost hard to overestimate the impact that Paul Schrader's seedy, neo-noir, "erotic thriller" (before it was dubbed such a thing) had on early 80's culture. I've mentioned the totemic single already. Score-wise, Giorgio Moroder brings the goods at nearly every turn. Films like this one ushered in an era of great electronic musicians scoring these atmospheric gems, like Tangerine Dream and Moroder himself. Style-wise, Gigolo basically put Giorgio Armani on the map. So much so that I wonder, in fact, if they are still paying Mr. Gere royalties to this day. Before 1980, Armani was a fledgling fashion company. Yet, after having it donned for 110 minutes by the shapely Richard Gere, and consequently by athletes and others in commercials far and wide, the fashion mogul's wares shot into the stratosphere.
What I'm trying to say is that American Gigolo has style for days. It's a film about sex selling, that sells us glamor and designer tailoring at every turn. The centerpiece of it all, of course, is Gere himself. His performance herein is a kind of wonder. He has to appear perfectly collected and confident about his ability to deliver the goods, while maintaining a chill insouciance about the entire upper class scene.
Yet, at the same time, this portrait of LA and Malibu is really one of a den of repressed souls. As such, Gere is trying to fit into a world in which he will always be an interloper. In the best moments, that outsider longingly looking in comes through in spades. Finally, the deepest layer exists between him and model turned actor Lauren Hutton. There, it is revealed that there is a man longing for real connection, for, dare we say it, love. Folding all of this in under pretty clothes and nice cars is quite a feat indeed.
Speaking of Hutton, this is where the whole thing really turns. For while I would recommend Gigolo's visual flair to anyone, it's plotting and scripting leave something to be desired. A generous reading of Schrader would call the sometimes wooden interactions between Gere and these rich, older socialite females intentionally vapid. For me, however, it disrupts the chemistry that the film is attempting to convey. In particular, the plot hinges on us buying the connection between Julian and the senator's wife. For the third act's actions to make sense, there must be real care and affection shared, and we're just never really given this glimpse.
I should mention that, as a neo-noir, there is a crime at the heart of this picture. There is an underbelly of gay clubs and rich elite a-holes who are into light S&M on the fringes of the beatific swimming pools and swaying palms. Here, Bill Duke shines as the pimp to whom Julian turns for solace. I'll forget about the fact that it took me 100 minutes to get used to Duke with actual HAIR and just state that he is as good here as ever. Ditto that for Hector Elizondo, the cop assigned to the case who begins haranguing Julian in the absence of a concrete alibi.
It all comes together in a finale which is, frankly, a little stilted and jarring. There is a confrontation and then a series of quick sequences which are clipped short. Each renders a moment or two of dialogue before fading to black. But the very final moment packs a certain kind of wallop. If only I had felt the requisite interconnection in the moments along the way.
That’s is the film's final legacy to me. A picture so influential in style, fashion, the sexual aura of its lead, and the tunes which guide us along the way, that yet falls short of Paul Schrader's very best in terms of its writing and plotting.
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