Confess, Fletch: Chaotic charm overshadows messy mystery

The opening shot of Confess, Fletch is a perfect encapsulation of its chaotic spirit: Jon Hamm’s Fletch, lounging in a Boston townhouse, stumbles upon a dead body and casually lights a cigarette. It’s a moment that should feel tense, but instead, it’s played for laughs—setting the tone for a film that never quite decides if it wants to be a mystery or a farce.

Based on Gregory McDonald’s 1976 novel and directed by Greg Mottola (Superbad, Adventureland), this third Fletch adaptation trades Chevy Chase for Hamm, swapping the breezy charm of the originals for something more self-consciously witty. The plot is a convoluted mess of stolen art, fake kidnappings, and a murder mystery that Fletch stumbles into—partly because he’s too charming to stay out of trouble and partly because the script can’t be bothered to keep its twists straight.

Hamm, with his effortless swagger and dry delivery, is the film’s best asset. He carries the weight of the absurdity with a smirk, whether he’s dodging cops (Roy Wood Jr.’s Inspector Monroe is underused but amusing) or flirting with Lorenza Izzo’s Angela. The supporting cast is a mixed bag: Marcia Gay Harden chews scenery as the Countess Sylvia de Grassi, while Kyle MacLachlan sleepwalks through his role as Ronald Horan, the film’s eventual villain.

The film’s strengths lie in its moments of pure absurdity—like Fletch’s increasingly elaborate attempts to evade the police or the dinner scene where a grieving boyfriend bursts in with a gun. These sequences highlight Mottola’s knack for physical comedy and Hamm’s ability to react with deadpan humor. But the mystery itself is a shambles, with red herrings that go nowhere and a finale that feels rushed and unsatisfying.

The film’s pacing is another issue. At just 99 minutes, it never has time to breathe or develop its characters beyond their surface quirks. The romance between Fletch and Angela feels tacked on, and the subplot involving the Count faking his own kidnapping adds unnecessary layers of confusion without adding depth.

Confess, Fletch is a film that never fully commits to being anything more than a breezy, forgettable comedy. It’s a shame, because Hamm’s performance and Mottola’s direction hint at something more—something with the wit of The Nice Guys or the charm of Bringing Up Baby. Instead, we get a film that feels like it was made on autopilot, a pale imitation of the screwball comedies it so clearly admires.

The film’s visual style is another missed opportunity. Mottola’s direction is functional but uninspired, relying on static shots and straightforward editing. There are moments where the camera lingers too long, like during Fletch’s conversations with Inspector Monroe, or cuts away too quickly, as in the climactic confrontation on Horan’s yacht. The Boston setting is underutilized, with the city serving more as a backdrop than a character.

The script, co-written by Mottola and Zev Borow, is where the film stumbles the most. It’s packed with one-liners and quips that fall flat, and the humor often feels forced rather than organic. The dialogue is sharpest when it’s between Fletch and his love interest Angela, but even these scenes suffer from a lack of chemistry. Izzo does her best to keep up with Hamm, but their romance lacks the spark needed to make it believable.

The film’s themes are equally muddled. It tries to tackle issues like class disparity and the corrupting influence of wealth, but these ideas are never explored in any meaningful way. The stolen art collection serves as a MacGuffin, driving the plot forward without adding any real substance. The Count’s fake kidnapping is a case in point—it’s introduced late in the game and resolved even more quickly, leaving the audience to wonder why it mattered at all.

Confess, Fletch is a film that’s hard to hate but impossible to love. It’s not bad enough to be a disaster, but it’s not good enough to be memorable.