Martin Brest’s Gigli has capable actors and a kidnapping to get them moving, yet spends its time on strained romantic talk. A few comic moments survive; the central relationship gives us little reason to stay.
Martin Brest writes and directs Gigli as a crime comedy that hopes the company of its leads will matter more than the kidnapping that brings them together. That is a reasonable hope for this sort of film, but these characters are poor company, and their conversations seldom improve them. The kidnapping becomes an excuse for conversations that are rarely persuasive or funny. Most critics have rejected it, and we agree with the central complaint: the relationship does not work. The few decent comic moments cannot carry 122 minutes.
Ben Affleck plays Larry Gigli with an effortful bluster that makes the character difficult to believe, even by the forgiving standards of a crime comedy. Jennifer Lopez has enough presence as Ricki to keep a scene watchable, but presence cannot make the exchanges sound spontaneous. The lines keep announcing how colourful these people are meant to be. We were bored by their banter because so much of it insists on being noticed without giving us a reason to care about the person speaking. A romantic comedy needs some pleasure in listening to its couple.
The writing is worse when it turns to disability and sexuality, subjects it handles with a crude confidence it has not earned. Brian, played by Justin Bartha, is drawn into the film’s attempts to mix rough comedy with tenderness, but the humour makes that tenderness hard to accept. We winced at the disability jokes, because the appeals for sympathy do not undo the way those jokes ask us to regard their targets. Martin Brest gives the characters plenty to say about other people and too little evidence that they understand them.
Robert Elswit’s cinematography is flat, with little in the image to reward attention when the dialogue stalls. Gary Frutkoff’s production design is similarly unobtrusive; the surroundings provide little sense of a life beyond the conversations taking place in them. The work looks professional, but it does not make spending time here more inviting. Editors Julie Monroe and Billy Weber allow the talk to dominate, and the scenes rarely gather momentum as they go. John Powell’s score adds an unhelpful blandness, doing little to ease the awkward movement between criminal threat, sexual banter and sentiment.
Christopher Walken and Al Pacino are useful exceptions to the general strain, bringing some comic life to their brief contributions. Their appearances make the lack of ease elsewhere harder to ignore. There is also something worth allowing in the film’s willingness to let its criminal characters be strange and undignified, even when the jokes fail. A tidier, more anonymous comedy might have less personality, but this one needed someone to distinguish an eccentric exchange from a conversation that should have ended.
Against the basic demands of a crime romance, Gigli falls short in both suspense and attraction. It is possible to enjoy a film like this on the strength of the actors alone, and the occasional flicker of charm explains why anyone might try. Here, though, the leads are repeatedly asked to sell dialogue that makes them less appealing the longer it continues. For anyone hoping its reputation promises an entertaining disaster, the caveat is simple: there is a great deal of waiting between the bits worth talking about.
