Have
you ever been in a jewelry store and seen a watch that clearly evidenced
superb craftsmanship, but somehow not “liked” it well enough to add
it to your own mahogany treasure chest? Such may be your reaction to the
newly re-released British film, Croupier, now being given screen
time at many theatres across the U.S. Yes, there’s much to tout in this film, which survived a
milk toast reception in the U.K. in 1998, but has gained momentum since
its release in May of 2000 in the US.
In
an intriguing storyline with fast, tight movement, and multiple
surprises reminiscent of No Way Out and The Sting, a wan,
cigarette sucking, self-absorbed young Brit, Jack Manfred, played
exquisitely by Clive Owen, looks with disdain at the world of pulp
publishing and an offer to write a steamy book about soccer for a creep
publisher-pal. OK, Jack is a starving artist with a con-man daddy, but
he’s gonna do better…right?
Seeking
dollars (actually pounds) to help pay bills with Marion (Gina McKee),
his drop-dead gorgeous live-in lover with brains, compassion, and a
sense of humanity, Jack follows his daddy’s encouragement and enters
the dark and heartless world of London casinos.
Jack
is soon tempted by the naughty gambler Jani (Alex Kingston) who wants
him to be her inside man in a robbery of the casino. Will he do it? The
croupier who plays the middle and has no tolerance for cheaters? Let me
just say that Jack plays to win and that there’s enough treachery here
to make a new Shakespeare play.
Seldom
will you see a film so well crafted, and you will likely go a long way
to find performances even half this good, especially Owen’s and
McKee’s. Still, Croupier falls far short of its potential perhaps in
part because its conclusions fly strongly in the face of how we choose
to perceive ourselves. Love is turned to selfish ends, lies and
treachery rule at every turn, and in the end, Jack is a master, but he
is a master of nothing.
Even
if Croupier doesn’t inspire a deeper sense of life’s values, it
offers grinding tension and memorable characters struggling to rise out
of the sea of losers swarming in dreamy hopes through the casino’s
parlors. In voice over narrative, Jack’s thoughts steer us through
this tapestry of marred human spirit from the supposedly safe middle
ground of the croupier, the man who deals us (the losers) the cards.
Believing that he is above it all, always the winner, and never the
loser, Jack lies and cheats his way to the top. Never mind the shredded
loves and folks he leaves strewn like black snow on the sides of a
plowed city street.
The
script written by Paul Mayersberg, (the same Mayersberg who gave us The
Man Who Fell To Earth), spent years in rewrite. British audiences were
left cold, but in America, the hotbed of violence coated with a thin
veneer of Disneyesque morality, the Croupier found a bit richer soil.
In
the end, although a provocative film with superb performances and
marvelous direction, Croupier might leave you saying “life is not like
that, life should not be like that”. Or, is it?
