One Paragraph Movie Review: The Hustler

Two hundred and forty-fourth film: 1961’s The Hustler, a film that was one third all I hoped it would be and two thirds bourbon-soaked cigarette butts ground into a second-hand, dirty carpet of human failings. Paul Newman, who remains unspeakably handsome despite playing a born loser, lets his ego and skill on the pool table bounce him from high to low and opponent to manipulative manager across multiple cities, never rising too far above a liveable income or a grimy kind of squalor. I love playing pool and am unashamed to admit that I love beating people at pool, so the smoky halls full of clacking ceramic and blaring chutzpah filled me with nostalgia and the confidence of a drunk 24-year-old man. But exactly like the places I used to play, this movie is more than half full of people drinking too much, making bad decisions, and holding unhealthy grudges, leaving a stale, dirty ashtray feeling on my eyeballs. There’s a lot of games, hardly any dames, and the whole thing is covered in a felty green despair. How good is pool, though. Two and a half masse shots out of five.