The Sting
The Sting belongs in the pantheon of films I'm deeply embarrassed to have not watched earlier. Not just because it's a great film — and it is — but because it is so incredibly my shit that I feel retroactively spurned for not having watched it sooner.
It's a movie to which the Ocean's franchise obviously owes so much, which is a funny thing to say given that the Ocean's franchise is itself a remake. But much like Ocean's, this is a hedonistic, smooth, and perfectly executed act of escapism, relying in no small part on your love and affection for two absolute behemoth actors.
Much like Ocean's — and sometimes even more so — it beggars belief. Early in the film, Paul Newman snaps his fingers and assembles, at a moment's notice, a two-dozen-strong team of expert con artists who work in choreographed unison for the rest of the film, never failing or faltering. A part of my brain went: come on, are you expecting me to believe this? And that part of my brain was immediately silenced by the louder, happier part that whispered: shush, and just let it happen.
The film ends with two little twists. One of them is so obvious that I think it barely merits mention; the other — the revelation of a certain assassin's identity — actually did take me by surprise, and kudos to them.
But God, I challenge you to watch this film and not spend the final six or so minutes with a maniacal grin on your face. It is a movie faultlessly devoted to pleasure. I'm glad that not every movie is like that, but I'm glad that many of them are.