Croupier deals with interest.

Jack Manfred is a struggling writer who is set up by his gambler father for a job dealing at a London casino. Catching inspiration from the seedy setting of his employment, Jack starts to write about his experiences. But although it makes for a good story, the reality is that his life is spiralling out of control.

Croupier is known for two main things outside of being a good and interesting film. Firstly is that it launched the career of Clive Owen, lifting him out of the TV mainstay league and into the Hollywood subconscious. Secondly is that it was largely ignored on release in its homeland of Britain, but after America took a liking to Mike Hodges tantalising tale, it scored a re-release and Owen and the film have not really looked back since.

Though not quite deserving of the sleeper gem reputation it has, Croupier none the less is a strong London based thriller set amongst the ducking and diving world of the all night casino. Led by an engaging Owen performance, the characters are meaty, with Hodges and his writer Paul Mayersburg creating a nice line in paranoiac mystery. There's a bit of an overdose of twisters in the final straight, but in the main Croupier comfortably holds the attention span for the 90 odd minutes run time. 7/10

Such a shame. This is actually a decent film, but is ruined and turned into an unwatchable laughing stock by one simple thing.
The film's title, the main protagonist's job, is mispronounced throughout the entire film.
Unfortunately this is completely at odds with the image the film seeks to create, as well as being like fingernails down a blackboard to have to listen to for over an hour. If correct use of language doesn't matter to you, you'll probably like this film.

I’ll admit I had high hopes for _Croupier_—a cool, smart British film set in the gritty London of my late teenage years, a city I loved, but that’s since vanished. And to be fair, the plot is clever and hooked me early on. There’s a slick, noir-ish vibe that’s easy to settle into, and Clive Owen absolutely looks the part. But while the script has its flaws, it’s the direction that really lets the film down. The pacing drags, and there’s a cold, clinical detachment to everything, making it almost impossible to connect with any character. You’re kept at arm’s length, which drains the film of tension and emotional weight.


Owen ends up stuck in second gear—not entirely his fault. He’s far more compelling as the third-person narrator than he is on screen. And for a film supposedly steeped in risk, desire, and moral compromise, it’s shockingly unsexy. The female characters are flat and one-note, mostly there to pout, sulk, or stand around topless. The detour to the Oxfordshire party is a perfect example of the film’s missteps—pointless, tonally off, and best forgotten. Stylistically, it’s a full-on late ’90s time capsule—for better or worse—and hopefully, Owen’s hat, along with some of the film’s more outdated choices, stay locked inside it.