“You Left Enough”
Three words, pithy as fuck. So concise, it defines a character with such clarity and precision, it leaves your average Shakespearean monologue panting for air. Following as it does the cocksure grin of one Fast Eddie Felson (Paul Newman), the retort provides sufficient contrast that had the reel burned to a cinder, we’d still know the score. Felson, all brash, youthful arrogance, thinks he’s painted the other guy into a corner. That other guy, Minnesota Fats (Gleason), is far from concerned. Hell, the man has never even seen a corner, let alone been trapped in one. No need to escape a thing, as he’s never entered a room he can’t control. Moreover, he has every last man sized up before he even opens the door. Stands to reason, given that his very livelihood depends on it. Give them an opening – any opening, from a bead of sweat to a hair out of place – and the game is over before it even begins. And he would know. Because when you walk amongst mere mortals with a moniker like “Minnesota Fats”, it only works if your reputation precedes you.
And so it does. Fast Eddie knows. Never laid eyes on the man yet still knows him by sight. He’s the one playing round-the-clock pool looking like he just came from a wedding. Hair oiled, skin gleaming, fresh as a daisy. He’s pink and powdered to perfection, with a carnation in his lapel to match. And if you didn’t know, you’d soon come face to face with an education. The kind where the end result is locked down before the balls are even racked. Yessir, the game is pool. Sport of kings, provided we stretch the meaning of royalty just a tad. Where we dispense with crowns and robes and endless pomp, deferring instead to the only thing that matters in a seedy, smoke-filled pool hall: grit. Grit that takes control early and often. Grit that never betrays a goddamn thing until the stake is all yours. Every last crumpled, beer-soaked bill. Grit requiring talent, yes, but infinitely more character. The kind Mr. Fats was born with, and the kind Mr. Felson couldn’t buy had he the deed to Fort Knox.
I could spend hours extolling the genius of The Hustler, a film so flawlessly conceived, written, acted, and directed, that for its 134 minutes, I’m willing to embrace the world as worth saving, given that it produced this. But for the sake of this piece, let’s narrow things down to the casting. Over here, the impossibly handsome picture of perfect masculinity as represented by a 1961 Paul Newman. He’s not only at the peak of his powers, he’s atop the zenith of an entire culture. Never again would such a man be possible. And over there, a man of girth and appetite in the figure of Jackie Gleason. Suave, sophisticated, and confidence personified, yes, but Newman’s exact physical opposite. Yet it’s the blue-eyed wonder who struggles. Has his trial by fire. Loses it all, only to lose it again. And though Fats never leaves that particular pool hall, he is everywhere. The ubiquitous white whale of legend, forever inhabiting the heads of his rivals.
Let it be said, however, that Fats is far from perfect. He even loses a third act marathon match, conceding defeat in a manner thought impossible by acolytes and spectators alike. An earlier push to the brink also didn’t go unnoticed by resident scumbag Bert Gordon (George C. Scott), who, for the first time, saw fear in Minnesota’s eyes. Eddie, improbably, had him on the run. Naturally, Eddie being Eddie, he let him off the hook. There’s that character thing again, as incontrovertible as gravity. But a crack appeared, and the legend was mortal, if only for a little while. It’s telling that when the final confrontation takes place – and yes, Eddie “wins” – it’s only after Eddie has literally nothing left to lose. He dared to care, and she too was taken away. Eddie, then, had to have one foot in the grave, loveless and alone, to have any chance at all. And if a man like Fats is going to surrender – “I can’t beat you,” he sighs, using a phrase unimaginable mere hours before – it’s going to have to be to the one man playing for his very soul. Maybe others came to Fats with similar tales, hats in hand, but even they had a bit more in the tank. Eddie was last-gasp empty, and that was enough to get Minnesota’s white flag.
Or maybe Fats eased up a bit near the end, half admiring the old boy for daring to come into the one place he was least likely to exit in one piece. But no, that would push Fats to the brink of sentimentality, and his tailored suits, if they said anything, let the world know he wasn’t about to bring anything other than his best. No, he got good and beat. And he handed over the cash without hesitation, like a gentleman. And while The Color of Money gave Eddie a future cloaked in fantasy and uplift, it’s far easier to believe that in a more authentic follow-up, he’d have entered one dive too many and that, as they say, would be that.
But Fats, well, he endures. Shooting pool again and again with effortless abandon until his heart gives out. As it would, sooner than later, when a cigarette is as affixed as your pool cue. Always a step ahead, always with one eye open, never an extra word or unnecessary gesture. A man just damn good at what he does, even if it’s impossible to believe he ever had to work at it. He just showed up one day, a man from the mist, who decided to set his things down and stay awhile. A man to whom the people come, because seeking them out would be unseemly. Undignified. Amateurish. And unlike Eddie, he’s no hustler. He’s far too consequential to have anything to prove.