mmevanille-53097
I believe this was supposed to be a tongue in cheek subtle mob comedy/drama, but unfortunately the plot moves too slowly to hold much interest. There are a few comedic parts but they are too few. It comedic style is subtle dark humour and situational.Had the director sped it up an element of farce could have emerged, but I believe it was slowed for dramatic effect or in some parts to create a more heartening experience. Which is fine with comedies involving complex plot lines or wit, but for a film such as this, it made it tedious to sit through, especially since it is a long flick.The script needed revising, and editing could have removed a large chunk of the film and it would have improved a lot. Some scenes really didn't need to be in the film as they didn't add to the story. J-Lo does ok, but unfortunately Ben's performance as a semi-brained mobster was not convincing. The Leisure Suite Larry background music and blank silences added to what people would consider a bad film and is probably one of the reasons it was reviewed so lowly by so many people. Most Hollywood films have a run of the gun style production, faster, more action and bigger is better. I think the intension of this film was the opposite and tries to give a more 'real' feel to the film, different to the normal tripe the leads are usually cast in. Again, it doesn't really work in Gigli, but the style doesn't always make a bad film. Gigli is watchable its just unlikely to be on anyone's best film list.
pyrocitor
You've probably seen your fair share of terrible, godawful cine-trash. You'd probably boast that you've guffawed your way through dreck like Jaws: The Revenge and Troll 2, and emerged, picking your teeth, demanding more. Maybe you've straight-faced your way through a conversation defending the 2015 Fantastic Four remake as a reflexive postmodern treatise on the autocannibalistic agony of commercial artistry without collapsing into hysterical, derisive laughter. You might jeer that you sit through an annual solo(!!) screening of The Room, seated on a throne of plastic spoons. You probably think you're invincible. And here you are, stumbling through the movie graveyard, preparing to test your mettle against The Big One. The Grandfather of Garbage, the Sultan of Cine-Sh*t. The man. The legend. Gigli. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. 'Ha', you sneer, defiantly hitting play on Netflix. Somewhere in the distance, you hear a faint skittering, as all nearby mice, birds, and insects flee in terror. 'This isn't so bad! I've already made it through the whole first scene of Ben Affleck's fourth-wall- breaking, excruciating Joiysey posturing and Big Hair with my wits intact. Gigli- schmeely!" Oh ho. Just you wait, friend. This is the mere foreplay before the true agony begins. Now we venture into the land of Inquisitives. "What are they saying? I can't decipher the bogus-Jersey!" "What is happening? Who is that man, hunched over those sunflower seeds? Is that Justin Bartha, that lovable scamp from National Treasure and The Hangover? What's he doing? Is he......is that...supposed to be like Rain Man? Why is he rapping? Oh. Oh no. Oh no no."Yes. But if this jaw-droppingly offensive depiction of an intellectual disability face-to-Big Hair with Affleck's mawkish gangster isn't already enough to make your eyes start to bleed, don't worry: you've yet to meet Jenny From The Block. She arrives, crop-topped, with a chorus of funk guitar fanfare, here to engage in glorious battle with Affleck and his Hair. A battle of the sexes, you say? Nay - they battle to see who can be the most embarrassing actor. And the battle is fierce. You think you've stomached flat, tone deaf, emotionally gyroscopic overacting before? Not like this. NOT. LIKE. THIS! As they open their mouths, words tumble out. Words arranged so impenetrably ornately, so indefatigably nonsensical, so riotously wretched, that they extend beyond the screen like creeping Poltergeist claws, and vigorously disembowel any viewer despicable enough to be within reach. Over time, the words feed off the despair of their listeners, accruing more malevolent mass, and becoming monologues. Monologues, anointing Affleck his true title of the 'Sultan of Slick,' christening Lopez Queen 'Dykeosaurus-Rexy,' and, in a feat of Tarantino-theft that would defy belief if everything else in this movie hadn't already defied belief out of the dictionary, explaining the process of 'Digital Orb Extrusion' in Tai Moi Chai. At this point, logical thought is a distant whiff of a memory, scattered like grains of sand in the ocean of Affleck's Hair Product. You'd want to let out a silent scream. But Affleck and Lopez have stolen all the words. And all you can do is babble. But lo! A bright star emerges! Here, we are visited by a kindly extraterrestrial from the Planet Walken. Concealing his fear behind his bug-eyed Cheshire cat grin, he attempts to approximate conventional human parlance to warn you of the dangers that ensue from prolonged exposure. But your brain has already eroded too much to decipher the coded messages hidden in his talk of ice cream and pie. Desperate, he croaks out a final warning of Gigli's most devastating side effect: "Your tongue will slap your BRAINS out trying to get TO it!" But it is too late. The final Brain Slap has begun. You fester in your own sick in this purgatory of Gigli's apartment, slobbering and gibbering like a lobotomized bulldog, as the strains of inappropriately saccharine romantic synth music form a dubstep remix with the word "Baywatch," and jackhammer a gong in your cavernous skull. Here, the movie sinks in for the kill. You hear Bartha utter the phrase "penis sneeze," but you are numb. You see every other woman in the film reduced to a boorishly flirtatious or hysterical, whimsically suicidal lesbian caricature, but you are numb. Hell, you even sit through the final hallucinogenic indignity of Al Pacino(?!), clad in a Talking Heads oversized suit, actually trying (??!?!) to infuse some class or energy into the film. But you are numb. Numb, because you have sat through two of the most stupefying monologues in cinema history. Behold: Ben Affleck's fist-pumping ode to the penis, and Jennifer Lopez's yogic aria to the vagina. With their powers combined, the film finally filibusters any remaining brain cells out of your head. 'He turns her straight, 1964 James Bond style?!' you would normally incredulously gripe. Normally. But by the time you reach the sanctuary of Baywatch, it's too late. Your motor functions have run their course; you are more vegetable than human now. The Brain Slap is complete. If only you'd listened to Walken, emissary from a faraway galaxy. He would have warned you about Gigli - namely, that the effects of consumption approximate, in the words of the beloved Douglas Adams, "having your brains smashed in by a slice of lemon wrapped round a large gold brick." But there is no gold here. Only pain. Only suffering. Now - if you had a chance of preventing this fate, dear viewer. If you could turn back time, and avoid drinking in this unfathomable chasm of universal offensiveness, this abominable void of oblivion. If you could save not only yourself, but the world as you know it. If you could take the hype not as a comedic, drunken challenge, but as a dire, chilling warning. Would you be, in the words of Walken, "InTERested?" -1/10
