Casino

SCREEN SCENE

By John Carlos Cantú

CASINO

[1995. Directed by Martin Scorcese. Cast: Robert De Niro, Joe Pesci, Sharon Stone. Universal Pictures. 170 mins.]

The case of Martin Scorcese is getting more interesting as we rapidly move through the 1990s. Arguably our best filmaker--and certainly one of the most passionate-- Scorcese's uncanny take on the underbelly of the American dream has been equaled only by Josef Von Stemberg and John Huston.

At his best--Mean Streets, Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, and Goodfellas--Scorcese is an intuitive master whose fluid blending of acting, narrative, and Mise-en-scène has few equals. Unlike, for instance, Brian De Palma, he's forcefully conveyed the message he wishes. And even though his audience might feel a little whipsawed for the effort, there's never been any question but that a master is working at all times.

Contradictorily, however, Scorcese's also always threatening to overrach himself. Cape Fear, The Age of Innocence, and New York, New York are three flawed dissimilar projects where his weakness as a storyteller were on display for all to see. Too sincere to be disingenuous, Scorcese has always been gutsy in his choice of material.

This makes Casino a peculiar film--even by Scorcese's quirky standard. Because even at his worst, Scorcese has never cannibalized his previous work. Yet Casino finds him pulling bits and pieces of his prior films (including, startlingly enough, The King of Comedy) to get him through a stuffed production that's as passionless as it;s furiously intenese.

Robert De Niro plays bookie Sam (Ace) Rothstein who's plucked form obscurity by te Mafia to run a Las Vegas casino. Since Ace is not really much more than a number-cruncher, the Dons also import his childhood friend, Nicky Santoro (Joe Pesci), to provide him with some much needed muscle. For the next three hours Ace and Nicky get pushed by circumstance after circumstance until they're at each other's throats.

The main cause for their discord is Ace's wife, Ginger (Sharon Stone), who's as unlucky in her choice of men as she's successful as a streetwise hustler. Ginger ultimately uses both men against each other until they all degenerate from the corrupted excess of their lifestyle.

Scorcese ( and co-screen playwriter, Nicholas Pileggi) want to play this story up like Greek tragedy, but what they've crafted is a three-star Goodfellas "West." Casino's sprawling minutia is so fascinating to them; they've seemingly forgotten there's a movie going on. Ace's collapse is so operatic in its scale and grandeur, there's little life in him (or any of the other characters). Like the remote anthropomorphic Gods of the past, these mobster's problems don't connect with the concerns of the mundane goodfellas down on the food chain.

Which is a shame because De Niro gives a flawless (if also soulless) performance as the star-crossed Rothstein. Likewise, Pesci is suitably out of control as the rabid Santoro. And Stone is an instant favorite for an Academy Award nomination as the weak-willed Ginger. She ultimately dominates the film by default because its episodic script gives her the widest range of plausible emotions.

It would be simple enough to assert that Scorcese has merely overreached himself once again. But this is not exactly the case. The greater danger is that for the first time in his career he's reflexively going through the motions. Although, admittedly, he still dazzles his viewer's imagination with his ability to mount a visual barrage steady enough, and inventive enough, to delight the eye and mind.

Ultimately, Casino is oddly superior blend of tired story and fabulous filmmaking. The film would be the highlight of nearly any other current director's oeuvre (fill in De Palma, Tarantino, or whomever you want among others). But then, that's the burden of being the best.