3 out of 5 stars

Appearances are everything in Paul Schrader’s American Gigolo. Following male escort Julian Kay (Richard Gere), this was the role that made Gere a star, and not for his acting ability. This neo-noir crime drama might have shown very little in the way of sex scenes, but in being one of the first Hollywood films to feature full-frontal male nudity it provoked intrigue and notoriety. Looking back at the movie 45 years after its release, this is now a non-issue, to the point where modern viewers are highly unlikely to be offended or scandalised by the particular scene that caused this reaction.

But even though this movie doesn’t feature much sex, it is infused with sexual performativity across much of the narrative. Julian is no ordinary escort, having sacrificed who he is in the pursuit of perfection in his line of work. He’s not so much in service to his clients as he is towards an all-consuming lifestyle. This is a movie where performance takes the role of personality, and vice versa. Julian does not have a working life. He has his ‘dates’, and the in-between stage that constitutes the rest of his existence, where opportunities for relationships, hobbies, or a social life are replaced by a state of waiting. Running alongside this rather depressing routine is a smattering of self-satisfaction, as both this film and its protagonist go to great efforts to appreciate Julian and his suave allure.

So, is American Gigolo a serious film about a shallow man, or a shallow film that matches its protagonist? It is often a muddy mixture of the two, where it hints at a tragic core to Julian’s life that it can’t meaningfully expand on. His delicately composed world becomes upended on two fronts: a blossoming relationship that hints at something real with married woman Michelle Stratton (Lauren Hutton), and an investigation into a recently murdered woman, Judy Rheimam (Patty Carr), who Julian was paid to sleep with before her death.

This is a film about walls closing in on its protagonist, whether that’s a love affair that encroaches on Julian’s self-perception, or a murder plot pinned on him that could reveal his profession to the world, tearing down the image of himself that he has carefully built up. Is he more scared of the obvious destruction of his life through prison time for a murder he didn’t commit, or the symbolic death of everything he appreciates about himself? American Gigolo toys with these parallel thought processes in the absence of a clear answer, with mixed results.

The thriller elements themselves are invigorating once they gain momentum, though more often than not the film is a character study. One could argue that American Gigolo showcases wide-spanning conspiracies, but if anything it is anti-conspiracy. This protagonist isn’t being framed for murder so that he can be silenced, but simply because he’s dispensable. The real kicker here is how downbeat this fictional world is without taking pains to emphasise that point; Julian’s attempts to exonerate himself continually reveal themselves to be the hopeless efforts of a lost cause.

There are some bum notes along the way, like two important side characters that add little to the film’s emotional palette. Leon (Bill Duke), this protagonist’s pimp, has a gormless look and one-note nastiness that cheapens not just the character, but American Gigolo as a whole. The same qualities, both physical and psychological, apply to Detective Joe Sunday (Héctor Elizondo), whose comic interactions with Julian come across as insincere. Even Julian himself is often lacking in depth, though at least in his case that’s a by-product of the movie’s design.

For as much as this protagonist takes pleasure in being the ideal vision of manhood, he’s really just a boy putting on a good performance. But the most damning trait, for both Julian and viewers of this film, is that he appears less as a boy who wishes he could satisfy his desires, and more so one who wishes he was capable of such complex feelings. Though surprisingly easy to pity given his big ego and casual homophobia, he’s still treated too remotely to elicit much feeling. Oftentimes Julian comes across as a vision of a wounded, boyish face, rather than the emotions that are scarcely concealed beneath this expression.

His lifestyle at the film’s outset seems ideal, not so much for the money or what it entails, but in the sense that Julian can consider himself desired and appealing at all times, feeding the part of his ego that thrives on performance. This existence doesn’t suddenly seem bare once he begins a relationship that hinges on authentic intimacy with Michelle; it’s only when he’s framed that he realises how inconspicuous a man like him really is. He thought he was an Adonis, where everything in the world that is pure and fair could hinge on his practised saunters, comforting words, and heavily choreographed love-making. Instead, he’s a mere child in a world dominated by adults. Julian’s existence is frivolous, as although he is technically seen and heard, he’s viewed merely as a beautiful piece of ornamentation by his clients once their night of passion is over. American Gigolo might not always be able to communicate the desperate loneliness of his chosen lifestyle, but watching it fall apart is certainly moving.

Julian is also a child in the way of this society’s brutality, failing to recognise that not having fostered meaningful relationships would affirm him being viewed as guilty in the eyes of the law. Even his employer Anne (Nina van Pallandt) appears more invested in a missed date with a client than the fact that he’s being framed for murder. Julian was so busy finding purpose in making himself useful for others as a minor supporting act in their lives that he failed to see how disposable that made him.

“I’m your number one boy,” he tells Anne, a little desperately (but less so than he ought to be given how much more he needs her than the other way around). He’s right, of course; his clients clearly share that opinion. But life is far more spontaneous than Julian ever wants to acknowledge. His controlled and perfected performance made him certain—understandably so—that he could never be replaced. But logic like this assumes that one’s world cannot simply be upended beyond one’s control. When this happens, Julian shuts out Lauren’s attempts to help him. He’s doing it for her sake, he tells her, as well as her husband’s, but he has lived his life trying not just to pleasure the women he services, but to comfort them, too. And these comforting acts have always been more selfish in the motivations underpinning them than he would like to admit.

“I never loved you,” he declares to Michelle, already walking away, because he knows at that moment he sounds like a child about to cry. He can’t even play the role of the fatalistic hero for a few seconds; he cares too openly—and too much—about his fate and hers. Even in this interaction, Julian experiences defeat, where he can’t value the few choices he has left as he’s being hunted. Pleas for mercy go nowhere, offers to make himself the property of others are rejected, and he’s callously cast aside to rot. It is his impending lack of freedom that Julian is outwardly concerned about, but it’s worth acknowledging that his inner self is continuously pummelled at every turn with these developments.

When Julian’s apartment is trashed by police looking for incriminating evidence of his alleged role in the Rheiman murder, it’s as if the culmination of his greatest fears has been realised, even if this defeat is symbolic. The avatars for his taste, professionalism, and affected social standing are in tatters. Maybe the greater tragedy is the realisation that, even at his peak, he was a hanger-on to these groups. Or it’s that he knows deep down that he was a fraud, and was always waiting for the rest of the world to catch on. Whatever the case, the scene is emotionally resonant in a film that needed more of these tragic moments.

What hampers this drama is the endless 1980s cheesiness. While American Gigolo can be credited for being rather prophetic in this regard given its release at the very beginning of this decade, there’s a noticeable cheapness to early scenes that feels neither playful nor ironic, especially given that Schrader seems as satisfied with the film’s visual style and punchy, upbeat soundtrack as Julian is with his self-image. Minor scenes contain a stiffness that feels less like a by-product of its protagonist’s controlled, mannered behaviour and more like shoddy filmmaking. The relative lack of nudity in a film about a sex worker is rather tasteful, but it does all of its leering through these aforementioned scenes, where visuals of Julian driving, paired with one of many disco tracks from composer Giorgio Moroder, never come across as a commentary on how empty these moments are.

As a leading man, Gere shows talent, even if his performance is often strangely muted. He talks as if he’s testing out his voice and accent, an approach that works in theory for a protagonist devoting himself to being attuned to others’ wishes, but which distracts from his acting. Hutton is easily the most compelling force here. She communicates longing effortlessly, easily making up for the holes in a somewhat compelling love story that still feels undercooked by the movie’s conclusion (its remnants of fiery passion aside). Speaking of which, American Gigolo’s ending has great potential, but like so much of this film, it feels like an odd amalgamation of styles and ideas that only sometimes meaningfully contrast one another.

USA | 1980 | 117 MINUTES | 1.85:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

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Cast & Crew

writer & director: Paul Schrader.
starring: Richard Gere, Lauren Hutton, Bill Duke, Héctor Elizondo, Frances Bergen, Carol Bruce & Nina van Pallandt.