Ill-Informed Gadfly

As I began a personal retrospective to honor the late Robert Altman, I decided to watch this 1974 triumph first because the jovial byplay between George Segal and Elliott Gould would make me laugh and remind me of the freedom Altman afforded his actors. And I did laugh, at Gould’s “one-armed piccolo player” gag and at the ironic hauteur of his cry for help after a nickel slot machine malfunctions: “Pit boss? Can I get a pit boss?”

But upon this viewing of “California Split,” what struck me most deeply was its despair. And what makes me smile is thinking of Altman’s bemusement at this reaction.

I always knew it was there, as an undercurrent to Altman’s fun and freewheeling chronicle of two gambling addicts, but upon my initial viewing (SPOILERS), the ending of “California Split” hit me with blunt force. (And I’m not the only one: In his critical appraisal that accompanied Altman’s obituary, A.O. Scott of The New York Times describes a similar disorientation after seeing “California Split” just a few weeks ago.) After their thrilling triumphs at the poker, blackjack, roulette and craps tables of Reno, Bill Denny (Segal) feels no elation, instead simply telling Charlie Waters (Gould) that he has to go home, and walking out with his share of their winnings. He understands that their victory is hollow, their buzz ephemeral. I didn’t realize until this viewing that the title was a pun. Bill doesn’t just take his share of the money — he splits, returning immediately to California. His friendship with Charlie — ostensibly the heart of the movie — is over.

What I came to understand this time, though, is that the movie’s real heart can be found earlier, in the crucial central passage when Charlie disappears. Bill and Charlie meet at the poker table, and they spend a couple of banner evenings together, gambling and carousing, although at the end of each, they get robbed, cutting into their winnings significantly. These letdowns don’t appear to dampen their sunny personalities or their affection for each other, but they take their toll in subtle ways. Bill and Charlie return to the poker club where they met, but it’s not the same, as they play at separate tables, surrounded by old biddies. Altman allows Segal two isolated closeups — a rare aesthetic choice for him, and one that Segal rewards him for by conveying a frightening, dead-eyed emptiness. Charlie and Bill also have their first fight, at Bill’s office, when Bill is on the phone with his bookie and Charlie advises him that the Lakers are a lock to cover a 5 1/2-point spread against the Suns at “Mr. Cooke’s Forum.” (I love this reference, because many people don’t know that Jack Kent Cooke, later the larger-than-life owner of the Washington Redskins, built the Forum, an elegant arena that was ultimately doomed because of its location, in Inglewood.) Bill doesn’t take Charlie’s assurances too well, pleading: “Where do you get your confidence?”

Some unspecified time later, when Bill tries to reconnect, Charlie’s gone. Let’s go through this sequence scene by scene. Bill stops by the house Charlie shares with two call girls (Ann Prentiss and Gwen Welles) and finds out Charlie got up early that morning and left. Uncomfortable around the women without Charlie there, he splits. Next, he’s in a hardware store, and the owner is an old friend who guesses that Bill is “back with (his) old lady.” This is how we first learn that Bill is or was married. The store owner is way off, though: Bill came off to ask him for a loan. Money in hand, Bill goes to a sleazy backroom poker game; at daybreak he’s leaving, cleaned out. Then he meets in a diner with his exasperated bookie (Joseph Walsh, who wrote the screenplay), again promising that he’ll pay him soon. Next, he’s at a dive bar, drinking alone, and an obnoxious woman calls him a faggot. Bill’s misadventures climax back at the prostitutes’ house, where the sweet and vulnerable Susan (Welles) tells him she really likes him, and they kiss. Their squirmingly awkward sexual encounter is cut off when Barbara (Prentiss) comes home and fishes around drunkenly for her TV Guide, with Susan’s help. As Susan rustles under the bed, thrusting her ass in the air toward him, Bill realizes what he’s about to do and slinks away. We’re left with Barbara trying, and failing, to reassure Susan that the men who’ll be taking them to Hawaii the next day really are nice, good-looking guys.

In this efficient and heartbreaking central sequence, Altman shows the pathos of gambling addiction and establishes that Bill’s determined trip to Reno will not be a happy one, no matter the financial rewards.

And yet, and yet — “California Split” is an unbelievably entertaining movie. Altman’s choices are so surehanded. I was stunned anew at his unself-conscious genius when I saw the tracking shots that follow Bill and Charlie through the streets of Reno, on the way to the casino: Bill walks as fast as he can, and Charlie buzzes along by his side, making small talk and idle suggestions. I get the feeling little of this was scripted, that Altman just told Segal to walk with singleminded determination and advised Gould to riff on that. In these few breezy shots, which cover less than a minute, Altman establishes the physical and emotional milieu for the thrilling climax. Moviemaking — the alchemy between actors and director, between form and content — doesn’t get any better.