One of the greatest mysteries for investigative reporter Irwin Morris Fletcher (“Fletch” to his friends) is why there are no more films depicting the character. Fletch’s famous novels by Gregory MacDonald, of which there are 11, were almost all dialogues. The author’s blissful style of remaking—which owes more to Hollywood comedy spiral lore than film noir—was supposed to have lent itself well to the scenarios, but only two films were made: Back in the ’80s, we got a couple that put Chevy Chase in the rank of detective goof. With a penchant for disguise, others (including Jason Lee, Ben Affleck, and Chris Tucker) have been trying to revive it ever since.
Finally reborn with Jon Hamm in the role and Greg Mottola (“Superbad”) behind the camera, the Confess, Fletch song doesn’t attempt to channel what Chase did before (elaborate costumes, complete with fake hair and teeth), instead returning to MacDonald’s philosophy that puzzles are not Only an excuse for the satirical reporter to take out other people, whether they are sources, suspects or professional investigators. The movie begins with Fletch discovering a dead body in his living room (technically, that’s not where he is, although his presence there immediately makes Fletch a VIP). Right after he’s lifted out of the book, the call he makes to report it tells us a lot about his character.
Fletch was looking into another crime: a wealthy man had been kidnapped, and his high-dollar art collection demanded a ransom. Since Fletch is reasonably certain that he wasn’t the killer, he ignores the cops assigned to the case—Inspector Morris Munro (Roy Wood Jr.) and his assistant, Grays (Aiden Maire)—off taking off his shoes when called into their office (“What, hands can walk around naked all day long.” Today, but God forbid some toes show?”) and treat these two officers of peace as if they were on his payroll.
While they watch Fletch, he proceeds to snooze on his own, interviewing a string of strangers whose relationship to the deceased is more memorable than whatever the actors he plays with them bring to the table. The standout amongst these is Annie Momolo as the next-door neighbor who is distractedly preparing dinner while Fletch interviews her, cutting her hand and nearly setting the kitchen on fire in the process. There’s also Kyle MacLachlan as the eccentric, Marcia Gay Harden as the sexy and annoying Italian Countess (pronounced “meat”) and Lucy Bunch as the memorial wife too eager to show off her “custom-made” (“bespoke” (“teaching us something about ourselves”) home furnishings.
Rather than making a grandiose show of disguise, as befits Chase’s comedic “National Lampoon” skills, Hamm plays on the recklessness and naivety of the other characters. When breaking into a country club, he puts on another guest’s jacket and lets others assume what they want about him. He’s slippery with cops and malicious about using connections (Mad Men co-star John Slattery appears as the editor of Fitch), but he doesn’t care much about covering his tracks elsewhere.
In the way Hamm and Mottola depicted, Fletch’s technique is no more sophisticated than someone trying to trick his dog by pretending to throw a ball and then hiding it behind his back. Frankly, it’s no less enjoyable to watch them fall for it than it might be a meticulously planned and executed investigation. Women can’t resist his charm (that part is easy for Hamm), while others laugh at him, but in the end, Fletch’s lack of professionalism becomes his trademark, like the Pothead PIs in “The Big Lebowski” and “Inherent Vice.” By the not-so-great ending, all the suspects have come together and Fletch has revealed his theory, which is quickly undone the moment another character pulls out a gun. But at least now he knows who the killer is. There’s more than one way to get the job done – whether it’s solving a murder, restoring priceless art or repainting an old truck – and Fletch’s strategy is guaranteed to be more original than anything the next guy will attempt.
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