The Sting (1973): Eitan's Take

One of the best things about watching these films chronologically is that we really get to see trends emerging. During a long stretch of the 30's, I remarked about how Best Picture winners tend to be films about ambitious, powerful, larger-than-life men. During other periods, we've been treated to the rise of the epic, the gritty New York drama, the stage-to-screen musical, and with the dawn of the 70's, New Hollywood and the reimagining of the complex American psyche. This is what makes The Sting such a blast to watch -- amid a sea of self-important films, propelled or hampered by their bloated ambitions, here's a film that doesn't give a damn if it's the Great American Film or just another silly studio backlot period caper. That it's a really great film, funny and clever and warm, is like some happy accident.

Of course, reuniting the two boy geniuses from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid has something to do with it. Sometimes, it seems like "chemistry" was a term invented to describe what Paul Newman and Robert Redford share; every sly look, every thumb of the nose, every boyish cackle and shared moment of too-clever planning is executed flawlessly by these guys. It's a shame they only made two films together. Nowadays, we're used to con man or crime movies where everyone is playing everyone, and the whole film is nothing but a shambolic web of blink-and-you-miss-it lies and deception -- yeah, we get it... the audience gets the biggest con. Here though, mostly because Newman and Redford are too good together, we assume that the film isn't playing nasty tricks on us. It's their show, and we're along for the ride.

The film looks and sounds great too. While The Godfather uses dark browns and beiges to capture the slippery morals and dark machinations of the crime world, The Sting uses the very same color palette to create a playful and engaging world. The back alleys, the sham storefronts, the poker room on the train, and the "FBI lair" are drained of their color so we can pay attention to the richness of the performances and the decidedly non-showy cleverness of the screenplay. (It does take a lot of work to craft a screenplay this quick and witty and have it not descend into smug, self-referential gooeyness.) This is a film that wisely asks the audience to view its inner world as a comedy, even as most of the actors are playing it straight. There are no cheap-o gags and no yuks. Every laugh, especially the ones after a long buildup, such as in the pitch-perfect Newman vs. Shaw poker scene, is well-earned.

I'll admit I'm a sucker for a good heist/con caper. Even the pompous and self-important Oceans Eleven has stayed with me over the years. There's something magical about watching a long con unfold. I love sitting back and seeing how every little element -- the bogus sets, the fake accents and mustaches, the slick sleights of hand, every little prop required to make "The Wire" con work so simply and so well -- comes together to form something too sinister and well-thought-out to dismiss as just a prank. And it helps the film, rather than hinders, that George Roy Hill and author David Ward lay out the film within the simple narrative framework of showing each part of the con ("The Set-Up," "The Hook," "The Sting," etc.) as it plays out.

The Sting is really just a lovely film, and one of the only Best Picture winners that allows itself to be nothing more than pure, smart entertainment. It's far from perfect, and it definitely drags at the end, but it's tough to give it demerits when it all congeals so perfectly. 9/10.