19 May 2004
MOVIE: CROUPIER (1998).
Jack (Clive Owen), an aspiring writer with a shady past spent mostly among gamblers, takes a job as a croupier out of financial desperation and finds himself becoming a pawn in a scheme to rob the casino. Now, Jack betrays very little emotion, simply watching the world go by in a detatched state, and Clive Owen (also of BMW Films fame) acts out this role appropriately enough. But you can only go so far with a noir protagonist who actually, seriously don't give a damn 'bout nothin'. For instance. Jack has to fight off a blacklisted cheater outside the casino--and then simply shrugs off the experience with a vodka. Then he cheats on his girlfriend with a fellow casino employee and soon gets found out: oh well. The same girlfriend mysteriously turns up dead, and he has to perform the horrifying task of identifying the body: right, more vodka please.
People, people: just because your main character is frigid doesn't mean your story has to be (Refer to The Man Who Wasn't There for an example of noir done right). But this one is--and to quote Jack, Oh well. It doesn't help that this whole unsatisfying caper eventually arrives at a conclusion that makes very, very little sense. If you want to see Clive Owen at his hard-boiled best, skip this and watch the Hire series at BMW Films instead.
I like this job because I like to watch them lose.
PHOTO DIARY.
 Down the street is Angels Attic, a dollhouse museum in an old Victorian house that benefits autistic children. In front stands this creepy humanoid statue, so laden with glass marbles that it must struggle to raise its arms in a pitiful gesture of beseechment. But approach not, O little autistic ones. For it is a trap.
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