The Sting
The Sting
The Sting has a lovely surface: and there’s nothing wrong with a film that is mostly surface if that’s where the charm lies. We have Johnny Hooker, a loveable 1930s grifter who knows in advance that if any real luck ever comes his way, he’ll simply throw it out in the same easy going way he takes the back luck in his stride. After he pulls a job with his grifter partner, he shows us this up front: laying hands on three thousand dollars he lays it all out in a single bet—and loses. This misfortune earns a simple shrug of the shoulders. The problem is that he and his partner Luther ripped off the wrong man: they indirectly ripped off one of the bosses, a man not willing to let this mistake go unpunished. Next thing we know, after having told Johnny he’s pulling out of the game and giving him the word on a guy who’ll help him break into the big con, Luther pays the price for ripping off the wrong man, and Hooker, moving quickly and in the process making enemies with a crooked cop by handing over counterfeit money for a bribe, shakes hands on a new caper, with Paul Newman’s Henry G.
George Roy Hill of course had directed these two in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, with the same kind of winning style. It seems the combination of these three working together is as winning as they tell us Julia Roberts’s grin is also winning. This isn’t a film meant to push the envelope: it’s a crowd pleaser, and it works, though as is the case with films that work as surface pieces, as style over substance, it’s a film you can watch once and then tick off—yes, immensely enjoyable, seen it.
Its soundtrack is famous—it brought the ragtime music of Scott Joplin back into vogue. Yet the music for me works against the film: ragtime had gone out of favour by the 20s and yet here it is in the 1930s. Everything about the design seems a little too clean cut and overly nostalgic: Redford is the famous pretty boy, and he never looks the slightest bit mussed when he’s dodging bullets, or puffed as he outruns the many men on his tail. The sets look theatrical: finding Henry, he walks through a building with fire engine red doors and details, and a merry-go-round presumably in storage. The cheerful décor works in the same way as the music, or Redford’s improbably pretty face: they romanticise and muddy the era. Redford never looks like he’s playing any era but now: somehow his costumes never lose their status as costume. I’ve heard Redford is so vain he insists on approving his own lighting, a la Marlene Dietrich. This is all very well—but its hard to imagine him getting his teeth into anything. As the Great Gatsby, as the Sundance Kid, as the Natural—and here as Johnny Hooker—its always hard to forget its Robert Redford playing another ultimately loveable guy. Sure he’s playing a crook—but he’s only ripping off people who deserve it: the crooks and murderers. The big bosses who won’t let the little guy make a living. He’s heroic, and you can’t forget it. The most interesting moments in his performances are the moments when you think there is something murkier going on inside his character—like here you’re meant to think he’s going to double cross his partner. Somehow you can never quite believe it though. He’s gotta be loved. And with that face I doubt he’s often been sorely disappointed.
Paul Newman is an actor that continues to surprise me by making me like him. I admit that I can’t resist Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and have been known to hang up from conversation when Paul Newman is about to fall over again. But outside of that role, I hadn’t seen him in much and didn’t expect to enjoy him—and Paul Newman with a moustache? Well, call me shallow, but not my cup of tea. But I like his flair for comedy, and the way Redford and Newman play off each other. The moments when they’re putting each other on are great. Newman shuffling cards as he’s about to go into the big poker game that’ll set the ball rolling loses control of the cards. The knowing exchange of glances between the two leads sums up all the reasons why the pairing works. It’s friendly humour, and we’re in on the joke.
What the Sting is is great popcorn cinema. Once you get into the caper, the slight falseness, the theatricality of sets and costume, suddenly don’t matter—they’re pulling a job, and suddenly the theatre fits: because now everyone is playing a character, playing a part. Instead of wearing street clothes that seem too spick and span, Redford appears in a tuxedo that the audience know is a put on, and it works. The good guys do their job and the bad guys know what’s going on. The good guys always remain that step in front, and keep running. Still, for all its charm it seems to have come along at a lucky moment: some of the important 70s cinema had come along, but the new blockbusters were still on the way. The following year Chinatown lost out to The Godfather Part II on the Best Picture Oscar in what was a much more hard-hitting view of the 1930s, and one that lingers on more completely in the memory. This is old school, and it does it well.
The Sting has a lovely surface: and there’s nothing wrong with a film that is mostly surface if that’s where the charm lies. We have Johnny Hooker, a loveable 1930s grifter who knows in advance that if any real luck ever comes his way, he’ll simply throw it out in the same easy going way he takes the back luck in his stride. After he pulls a job with his grifter partner, he shows us this up front: laying hands on three thousand dollars he lays it all out in a single bet—and loses. This misfortune earns a simple shrug of the shoulders. The problem is that he and his partner Luther ripped off the wrong man: they indirectly ripped off one of the bosses, a man not willing to let this mistake go unpunished. Next thing we know, after having told Johnny he’s pulling out of the game and giving him the word on a guy who’ll help him break into the big con, Luther pays the price for ripping off the wrong man, and Hooker, moving quickly and in the process making enemies with a crooked cop by handing over counterfeit money for a bribe, shakes hands on a new caper, with Paul Newman’s Henry G.
George Roy Hill of course had directed these two in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, with the same kind of winning style. It seems the combination of these three working together is as winning as they tell us Julia Roberts’s grin is also winning. This isn’t a film meant to push the envelope: it’s a crowd pleaser, and it works, though as is the case with films that work as surface pieces, as style over substance, it’s a film you can watch once and then tick off—yes, immensely enjoyable, seen it.
Its soundtrack is famous—it brought the ragtime music of Scott Joplin back into vogue. Yet the music for me works against the film: ragtime had gone out of favour by the 20s and yet here it is in the 1930s. Everything about the design seems a little too clean cut and overly nostalgic: Redford is the famous pretty boy, and he never looks the slightest bit mussed when he’s dodging bullets, or puffed as he outruns the many men on his tail. The sets look theatrical: finding Henry, he walks through a building with fire engine red doors and details, and a merry-go-round presumably in storage. The cheerful décor works in the same way as the music, or Redford’s improbably pretty face: they romanticise and muddy the era. Redford never looks like he’s playing any era but now: somehow his costumes never lose their status as costume. I’ve heard Redford is so vain he insists on approving his own lighting, a la Marlene Dietrich. This is all very well—but its hard to imagine him getting his teeth into anything. As the Great Gatsby, as the Sundance Kid, as the Natural—and here as Johnny Hooker—its always hard to forget its Robert Redford playing another ultimately loveable guy. Sure he’s playing a crook—but he’s only ripping off people who deserve it: the crooks and murderers. The big bosses who won’t let the little guy make a living. He’s heroic, and you can’t forget it. The most interesting moments in his performances are the moments when you think there is something murkier going on inside his character—like here you’re meant to think he’s going to double cross his partner. Somehow you can never quite believe it though. He’s gotta be loved. And with that face I doubt he’s often been sorely disappointed.
Paul Newman is an actor that continues to surprise me by making me like him. I admit that I can’t resist Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and have been known to hang up from conversation when Paul Newman is about to fall over again. But outside of that role, I hadn’t seen him in much and didn’t expect to enjoy him—and Paul Newman with a moustache? Well, call me shallow, but not my cup of tea. But I like his flair for comedy, and the way Redford and Newman play off each other. The moments when they’re putting each other on are great. Newman shuffling cards as he’s about to go into the big poker game that’ll set the ball rolling loses control of the cards. The knowing exchange of glances between the two leads sums up all the reasons why the pairing works. It’s friendly humour, and we’re in on the joke.
What the Sting is is great popcorn cinema. Once you get into the caper, the slight falseness, the theatricality of sets and costume, suddenly don’t matter—they’re pulling a job, and suddenly the theatre fits: because now everyone is playing a character, playing a part. Instead of wearing street clothes that seem too spick and span, Redford appears in a tuxedo that the audience know is a put on, and it works. The good guys do their job and the bad guys know what’s going on. The good guys always remain that step in front, and keep running. Still, for all its charm it seems to have come along at a lucky moment: some of the important 70s cinema had come along, but the new blockbusters were still on the way. The following year Chinatown lost out to The Godfather Part II on the Best Picture Oscar in what was a much more hard-hitting view of the 1930s, and one that lingers on more completely in the memory. This is old school, and it does it well.
posted by Kate Middleton at 1:28 AM
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