Hustlers

Cinema began as a fairground attraction.

Limited to ten-second nickelodeons — which depicted everything from kittens to dancers to men lifting dumbbells — the earliest movies much more closely resembled the memes and TikTok videos of today than feature films.

Yet going to the movies can still produce a thrill akin to that of being at the circus. Walking into the theater to see Hustlers last week, I felt like I was entering a carnival sideshow: down the row of attractions I went, catching pockets of sound — explosions, blasts of music, exclamations — from each of the little venues I passed. I’d bought a ticket, and found my seat, where I waited with hushed anticipation as the lights went down and the music swelled.

It’s New York City. 2007. The first thing I saw onscreen was the face of Destiny — or, that is to say, of Constance Wu. A stripper, she and a roomful of women are preparing to go onstage for their regular evening show. A stage manager shouts; the ladies gather and file through a cement tunnel. The camera trails behind Destiny, hugging close to her back; it feels like we’re following a second-string linebacker as he runs onto his first homecoming field. Instead, Destiny emerges into the glitter and flash of the nightclub — an arena in its own right, site of its own kind of gladiatorial showdown.

We watch as Destiny goes through a night on the job: she dances; takes men into the back rooms; walks away with cash that is promptly split three ways between the club managers and herself. She doesn’t appear to be very taken with her job, nor is she confident in her abilities. The following night, it’s the same deal: she wanders around, apathetic… until the lights suddenly dim and turn blue. The speakers crackle as Fiona Apple’s “Criminal” starts to play. And out steps Ramona (Jennifer Lopez), who strides onstage with a bedazzled vest and captain’s hat. The crowd goes wild.

Destiny watches this goddess. She begins her routine, at first merely straddling the dancer’s pole — but then, like an acrobat, she rises, pins herself stiff, then nearly soars through the air. The pole may technically be the more stable of the two, but Lopez renders it invisible next to her athleticism and bravura.

By the time Ramona’s done, the stage is littered with bills. She sweeps them into her arms, and is helped offstage, leaving the club in an uproar.

She pauses as she passes Destiny. “Doesn’t money make you horny?,” she moans.

It’s a diabolical quip, the grandchild of Lorelei Lee’s declaration, in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (1953), that “diamonds are a girl’s best friend.” She’s been onscreen for less than two minutes, and Jennifer Lopez is already the queen of this picture: the main attraction, the consummate performer.

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Hustlers is filled with such moments — charismatic set pieces worthy of the most iconic star turns of Hollywood’s golden era. Immediately after Ramona’s entrance, Destiny goes up to the club’s roof to find the star lording over a deserted nighttime scene. It’s the middle of winter, but Ramona has donned a gigantic fur coat and is smoking a cigarette. She reclines in such a way that her pose is an almost exact imitation of Jean Harlow on the poster for Dinner at Eight (1933) — and, like Harlow in that film, Lopez is playing a woman typically frowned upon by society. Yet seen through the eyes of cinema, she cannot help but emerge as a force of nature.

I don’t mean to give the impression, however, that this is strictly J.Lo’s party: Hustlers is an ensemble work, and effectively utilizes each of its actors’ individual strengths. There’s Wu, of course, who serves as the emotional center to this film — a Nick Caraway-esc witness/participant in the decadent, magnetic world of stripping. Her Destiny is uncertain, hungry for acceptance — both on the outside of things and deeply affected by all that unfolds around her. Wu delivers that torn internal dynamic with precision and clarity.

And the supporting cast is equally well-drawn: there’s a droll Trace Lysette complaining about her jealous boyfriend; Mercedes Ruehl as the dancers’ good-natured mother hen; Lizzo essentially being herself, i.e., playing the flute and praising her plus-sized physique; and the incomparable Cardi B, who’s barely in the movie but does manage to give Destiny a lap dance lesson with Ramona as the lapee. Writer and director Lorene Scafaria displays a remarkable aptitude for generating spontaneity and glee in her performers, and Hustlers bustles along with unnervingly playful energy. It made me giddy.

It did, at least, until things took a turn for the serious. The strippers’ luck dries up when the 2008 Recession forces most of their Wall Street clientele to stop frequenting the club. Desperate to preserve their moneyed way of life, Destiny and Ramona work with two other dancers, Mercedes (Keke Palmer) and Annabelle (Lili Reinhart), to lure wealthy clients — whom they wine, dine, drug and fleece for thousands off their personal credit cards. But as their “business” takes off, Ramona becomes reckless about trying to expand their profits; she tries to find new men to squeeze, and starts bringing in unqualified novices to aid in their operations. (Destiny is more discerning: “We’re breaking the law here, I don’t want to get involved with criminals!”)

As could be expected, the party can’t go on forever — and when the speakers die down, and the lights come up, you can’t help feeling that you’ve stayed a bit too long. Sadly, Scafaria’s talent for generating chemistry among her actors ends up working against her, as the film’s second half calls for a leaner, more brusque temperament than its director is prepared to affect. Like Ramona, Scafaria is eager to keep things moving, and doesn’t sit still for any longer than she has to. The result is a movie that perpetually rallies and beckons for its audience to do the same — long after we’ve grown tired and are longing for a nap. As much as we may like to, not all of us can muster the stamina to never slow down; we can’t all be Jennifer Lopez.

And, to be honest, a sustained moment of reflection might have done the film good. Hustlers very deliberately makes its point about the nature of American capitalism: that in a world ruled by the market, everyone’s got to stay ahead of the game. “If there’s one thing I know about this country,” Ramona observes, “it’s that everyone’s a hustler. Some of us have the money, and some of us dance.” Yet I don’t feel it pushes itself far enough in interrogating issues of socio-economic exploitation — particularly in relation to our collective cultural ease with watching women strip.

Despite modern-day claims of empowerment — that if a woman chooses to strip, she’s strong for making it her choice — the eroticized display of female bodies is founded upon millennia-old traumatic legacies rooted in economized patriarchy, chattel marriage and slavery. Through all the debasing treatment they endure as strippers, Ramona, Destiny and the others never seriously question the legitimacy of their chosen profession. Sure they like making money and feeling snatched when they try on their designer bags — but why must women seek empowerment through the commodification of their bodies?

And why must their business-savvy stem from the manipulation of men’s power? A stripper’s prosperity is always dependent upon that of the men who patronize them. Does tricking men render the women powerful, or just make them that much more dependent?

In spite of such concerns, it’s hard not to be taken in by the lifestyle that has these very charming people so completely entranced. That may be Hustlers’ most sinister accomplishment: its ability, like Ramona, to persuade its audience to go along for the ride. In the final scene of the pre-Recession days, Usher, as himself, visits the strip club. Delighted, all of the dancers rush onstage and perform for him en masse — a throb of flesh and glitter to match their love for the adorable heartthrob.

At one point, Lopez, as Ramona, bends down, leans close to his ear and asks, “What’s your name, baby?”

The singer grins at her. Of course you know who I am, he could be thinking. Not only am I famous — I’m pretty sure you’re famous, too.

But he plays along; this is a movie after all, and as of this scene, they’ve never met.

“I’m Usher,” he says. And then he takes Lopez in his arms and carries her offstage.

Everybody laughs. The strip club has become a playground; there’s no room for anything here but fun and happiness. I don’t blame the future Destiny for her conflicted feelings when she looks back on these past events: even with all that’s been lost, even after all the trouble that’s gone down, it’s pretty hard to forget what a good time we all had.