Film Dunce is a weekly series in which one of our writers finally succumbs to the lure of a movie that has long been a big part of our culture that they have never seen. Seen through fresh eyes, we evaluate, enjoy and sometimes get bored by these titans of mental real estate.
In an earlier installment of our Film Dunce series, I had the opportunity to articulate the strange reaction I felt when watching Steven Spielberg’s Schindler’s List for the first time. As a worldwide phenomenon of a film, a true labor of anguish from a director whose name is practically synonymous with “event” movies, I was already familiar with any number of significant scenes and symbols, even without having actually seen it. In that movie’s case, familiarity didn’t breed (much) contempt; historical context and tragedy lent the images I had already become inured to weight and depth, despite pop culture’s assimilation and subsequent diminishing. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for my latest dive into Film Dunce territory, the Oscar-hogging 1973 caper film The Sting. Of course, when a movie’s been out on the market for nearly 40 years, it’s hard to avoid some spoilers. But when those spoilers are the entire point of the movie, it can’t help but feel something has been lost.
Let’s just get the giant, climactic SPOILER out of the way first: after pulling a giant con on a Chicago crime boss, aging grifter Henry Gondorff (Paul Newman) and Johnny Hooker (Robert Redford) are busted by the FBI. In a matter of moments, Gondorff guns down Hooker for ratting them out, the Feds fill Gondorff full of holes and bang, bang, surprise your heroes are dead. Or are they?
The answer: no, they are not. It turns out that not only has the titular sting (ie, the culminating sequence of a con) been on the crime boss Doyle Lonnegan (Robert Shaw), but it’s actually on the audience themselves. Gondorff and Hooker have been even more sneakier than it seemed; they’ve taken a vicious Irish mob boss for half a million dollars (in Great Depression-era money, at that), fooled a corrupt cop into thinking he’d finally caught the elusive Hooker and then faked their own deaths in order to escape scot-free. And all of this is elegantly, brilliantly crafted and presented, bursting with star power and wit. But unfortunately, there’s pretty much no way to not know about this famous final con, and when it’s so crucial of a last minute plot twist, the movie can’t be as interesting or mindblowing as it was in 1973. It’s by no means a bad movie; much the opposite, in fact. George Roy Hill’s spot-on evocation of 1930s Illinois is beautiful on its own merits, paradoxically looking like the semi-mythical Americana of the Saturday Evening Post and Norman Rockwell and like a movie set America. It manages to both be the thing it is and the thing being imitated. Clever flourishes like the post-card cut scenes referring to which part of the con they’re in and the now-iconic Scott Joplin ragtime score just increase the sense of hyper-stylization and witty energy of the movie.
And of course, there’s that inestimable film duo to take into account. Just a few years after their successful pairing in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (also helmed by Hill), Redford and Newman have incredible chemistry here, completely independent of whatever stings and twists may come. In fact, their pairing at times is the epitome of manly American charm, tinged with just a little bit of sleaze. Take your pick: the oily yet persuasive maturity of Newman or the crackling energy of Redford. Either way, you win. They’re basically the Goofus and Gallant of Depression-era conmen, but it’s also notable that Newman’s star shines much brighter throughout the film. Whether by dint of acting, charisma or just sheer star power, Newman dominates The Sting, though Redford is ostensibly the protagonist of the film. Even a brief scene of Newman acting like a drunken oaf of a card cheat is a delight to watch, with little offhand beats like his using a borrowed tie to wipe his mouth coming off as effortlessly delightful.
But as a movie, The Sting simply just can’t have the same impact on a viewer as it would have had upon its release. Despite the quality of its craftsmanship, its detailed narrative and the undeniable cinematic charisma of its heroes, it’s a movie based on a con. Not just the con played within the story, but a feature-length momentum building up to a sudden, rug-sweeping trick on the viewer. Given the very nature of what it is, if that secret’s out, it’s instantly not the same movie. And when you’ve had almost four decades to have it spoiled for you, even a first time watching it isn’t enough.
