Directed by: Greg Mottola
Starring: Jon Hamm, Lorenza Izzo, Roy Wood Jr., Ayden Mayeri, Kyle MacLachlan
Rated R, 98 minutes
There are certainly more remarkable movies you could see than “Confess, Fletch,” movies that have attracted more public intrigue, movies that leave a starker impression. Just within the last few weeks, between the releases of the Marilyn Monroe biopic “Blonde,” with its controversy over its salacious NC-17 treatment of Monroe’s life, and the drama “Don’t Worry Darling,” with its unending behind-the-scenes gossip-mongering, it seems all the air has been sucked out of the room, leaving little space in the public consciousness for anything else. Even Miramax, the studio behind “Confess, Fletch,” seems to have lacked faith in the movie’s ability to draw a crowd; director Greg Mottola (“Adventureland”) and star Jon Hamm (“Mad Men”) had to donate large portions of their salaries just so the production could afford to finish filming.
It’s a shame, but then, that’s business. A breezy whodunit set among the ritzy townhouses and yacht clubs of Boston, “Confess, Fletch” reminds us time and again that the foibles of the wealthy trickle down to us all; we are all at the mercy of money and the games people play with it. That doesn’t mean, however, that we have to take rich people seriously. “Don’t you just hate people who are too poor to afford beauty?” Fletch asks a wealthy influencer in one scene, pretending to be a fawning magazine journalist. She laughs, making a telling face.
Much of the film plays out with similar irreverence, as Fletch investigates the murder of a young woman to clear his own name in the case. Sparring verbally with the sluggish Inspector Monroe (Roy Wood, Jr., “The Daily Show”) and his clumsy assistant Griz (Ayden Mayeri, “I Love That For You”), Fletch calls to mind Dr. Richard Kimble of “The Fugitive,” if Kimble had stuck around to offer the U.S. Marshals unwanted advice in their investigation. As Fletch hunts for clues, his springy energy and witless wisecracking never flag, for better or for worse. Rare is the mystery with a more guilelessly stupid gumshoe at its center.
If not a movie of especial thematic or emotional heft, “Confess, Fletch” is charming, boasting a cast of quirky supporting characters and a loose, two-hours-into-cocktail-hour atmosphere. Jon Hamm, our star, almost blends into the background while everyone from Marcia Gay Harden to Lucy Punch to Annie Mumolo to John Slattery parades through the scenery, bewildering and bewitching Fletch with their trifles. Characters drop their phones and their meals and they fall asleep sitting up, ruining moments of tension before they’ve even begun. A yacht club security guard stops every car at the gate to tell the passengers of his allergy to shellfish. As Fletch unearths more details around the woman’s death—exposing, in turn, the truth behind a multimillion-dollar art heist and the kidnapping of a wealthy Italian count—the world around him comes into focus, revealing a rich tapestry of fools. Red herrings abound; they’re almost more important than the mystery itself.
If anything, the action is too light and inconsequential. For all the claims of his innocence, Fletch commits one crime after another in the course of his search. “The only reason I haven’t arrested you yet is because I enjoy watching you dig a deeper hole for yourself,” Inspector Monroe chides him, in a not-quite-convincing concession to the limits of audience disbelief. Elsewhere, Greg Mottola’s screenplay leans too heavily into its nonchalant tone, until it seems like even Fletch doesn’t care what happens. With neither the buffoonery of Frank Drebin in the “Naked Gun” movies, nor the sanguine calm of, say, Benoit Blanc in “Knives Out,” Jon Hamm’s Fletch is sometimes caught in a purgatory between slapstick and suave.
For fans of the original ‘80s Fletch movies starring Chevy Chase, “Confess, Fletch” may seem an odd reprisal of the character, a reboot that sees our title character taking a backseat to the many eccentric players that surround him, the murder mystery serving as a vehicle for some easygoing, low-stakes comedy. It’s like putting a set of plain furniture in a room with extravagant wallpaper. But ultimately this is no less reason to enjoy the film, with its many fine performances and its disarming sense of humor. The world may be full of suffering, but is that any reason to let a little murder get you down?
Originally published in The Harvard Press on 10/7/22.