Susan Granger’s review of “Confess, Fletch” (Paramount/Miramax)
“Confess, Fletch,” the reboot of the cartoonish character that Chevy Chase made famous back in the 1980s, is perhaps the most utterly boring piece of celluloid rubbish that I’ve had the misfortune to sit through in a long, long time.
Irwin “Fletch” Fletcher (Jon Hamm) is a former investigative reporter now researching a book in Rome. He’s romantically involved with an heiress, Angela Di Grassi (Lorenza Izzo), whose art collector father has been kidnapped. At her behest, Fletch travels to Boston to find the Picasso painting that his captors demand as ransom.
To his dismay, Fletch discovers a dead woman on the living room floor of the elegant, art-filled townhouse Angela is ostensibly renting. A call to the police brings a skeptical, sleep-deprived detective (Roy Wood Jr.) and his clumsy partner (Ayden Mayeri) onto the scene of the crime.
One of Fletch’s encounters is with an unscrupulous, germ-phobic art dealer (Kyle MacLachlan), another with his wacky neighbor (Annie Mumolo) and a third with a self-involved lifestyle guru (Lucy Punch). Complicating matters, the heiress’ Italian stepmother (Marcia Gay Harden) keeps trying to seduce him.
Based on Gregory Mcdonald’s 1976 novel, it’s ineptly adapted by Zev Borow and stumbling director Greg Mottola (“Superbad”). Many of the pointless episodic scenes make no sense whatever and the pacing is listless at best. As a result, the 98 minute running time seems endless.
Perhaps the more intriguing mystery is why – considering the fact that Harvey Weinstein is now incarcerated – the Miramax label adorns this project, released under the Paramount Pictures banner.
The ill-fated film’s only redeeming feature is the playful, laid-back charm of Jon Hamm, particularly when he briefly trades barbs with his “Mad Men” cohort John Slattery in an all-too-brief newsroom scene.
On the Granger Gauge of 1 to 10, “Confess, Fletch” is a tedious 2, playing in theaters until it transitions onto Showtime.
