The relatively low placement of “California Split” in the common consideration of Robert Altman’s masterpieces is, if we’re being honest, less about the quality of the picture (more on that presently) than on its general availability. Unlike his smash “M*A*S*H” or critical successes like “McCabe and Mrs. Miller” and “Nashville,” this 1974 comedy/drama never had an ‘80s-era domestic VHS release to affirm its reputation; like a fair number of pre-home video titles, it was snagged by music rights, which the original deals only licensed for theatrical exhibition and television airings. Those songs would have to be cleared (and paid for) again for home video use, and according to Altman, “The cost of the music track on ‘California Split’ was so high that Columbia just couldn’t put it into video or DVD. That kept it out of circulation for years.”
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When it finally hit DVD in 2004, the director had to compromise, supervising a new cut that changed some music cues, deleted others, and excised music-related sections of scenes altogether. It ran nearly three minutes shorter (the cuts are detailed here), it’s something of a travesty, and that disc has long gone out of print anyway. Those hoping to see Altman’s original version had to either see it at a revival screening (unlikely for those not living in major markets), catch a rare television screening (where it’s frequently cropped to 16:9 from its original 2.35:1 presentation), or wait for it to pop on the streaming services (also, usually cropped). So the film’s recent, unexpected appearance on Amazon Prime Video, with all the music intact and in its original aspect ratio, feels like a welcome quarantine treat.
It’s somewhat ironic that music has made “California Split” so hard to see because so little of the film’s musicality is about copyrighted songs. It’s about the melodiousness of the places its compulsive gambler characters dwell: the busy buzz of the casinos and poker clubs, the little hum of chatter in the private high-stakes games, the murmur of shop talk, the clicking of chips. Gambling dramas have always battled the problem of letting the outsider in, as a not-inconsiderable portion of the audience may not know the rules and rituals of these games. As if predicting that concern, Altman opens his film with one of his characters watching a “HOW TO PLAY POKER” video tutorial while waiting for a spot to open up at a poker club. At first, it seems like an explainer, and a clever one at that – a quick way to brief anyone who doesn’t know the rules. But little of that video’s information comes into play because Altman isn’t concerned with the rules of the game; he’s interested in what it’s like to sit in these games and to move between them. Looking back, the device exists not as exposition, but as character introduction, since we learn a fair amount about Charlie (Elliot Gould), the career gambler watching it, from his laconic commentary.
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He finally gets a seat at the table, alongside Bill (George Segal), a magazine writer and relative newcomer to this world. Bill ends up helping Charlie out of a dispute, and as an audience that’s seen a gambling/heist/con man picture or two, we’re so accustomed to the surprise reveal (turns out they’re partners, working together!) that screenwriter Joseph Walsh surprises us by not doing it. No, they are indeed strangers, though not for long; they find themselves at the same bar afterward, and Altman gives us a marvelous cut from them buying each other a beer to the two of them at the same bar hours later, thoroughly hammered, with several empty glasses in front of them.
In the scenes that follow, “California Split” keenly and perceptively captures how someone you meet in a chance encounter can become a best friend (at least for a while) in a few short hours. Though he’s already falling down the gambling rabbit hole, Bill still lives some semblance of a normal life: real job, real office, real hours. With Charlie, he quickly assumes a vampire schedule and starts finding excuses to sneak out of work to hang out at racetracks and in back rooms with his new pal. They’re not picky about what they play – they’re just looking for action, no matter how big or small (“Ten dollars says you can’t name the seven dwarves”),
Some viewers grouse that the picture is aimless or too shaggy, but there is plot – a lot of it, actually. You’ve got the veteran who takes the rookie under his wing, their various hustles and angles, their half-hearted romantic pursuits, how Bill flounders on his own and goes deeper into debt, culminating in a trip to Reno for a big game that will hopefully dig him out of the hole. But Altman’s approach to the material is so modest and organic that you never feel the narrative gears grinding. He keeps the focus squarely on Bill and Charlie and is less concerned with what happens to them than with how they react to it, and how they treat each other.
That last point is the key. When Charlie disappears unexpectedly and without explanation, Bill sees it as a personal betrayal – an abandonment, really – and when Charlie returns, Bill lashes out at him. Charlie subsequently feels betrayed himself, when Bill makes him leave the room during the big game. In homing in on these beats and playing them out, Altman and Walsh are wrestling with the vulnerability and sensitivity of male friendship, and it becomes clear, as the narrative continues, that this is the real subject of the film.
So it’s a good thing they had George Segal and Elliot Gould to act it out. Few on-screen duos have so beautifully tuned in to each other’s frequency (you might have to go back to classic comedy teams like Abbott and Costello or Laurel and Hardy), and though it’s been said before, it’s worth repeating that this is probably the only era in which either of them could have been a leading man. Segal plays what amounts to the straight man, the semi-square who finds himself up to his neck, while Gould has the showier role, keying in on his specific brand of confident hepcat (there are moments here that recall his last collaboration with Altman, as Philip Marlowe in “The Long Goodbye,” particularly when he’s left alone to mutter to himself). Charlie may not be able to keep a dime in his fingers, but it takes a special kind of cool to get mugged for your winnings, and talk your mugger into splitting them with you.
Altman, as was his wont, drops us into this scene and lets us figure it out, as characters throw around jargon or proceed with relationships that aren’t explained in clunky exposition. His visual and aural style matches the immersion of the storytelling: lots of wide and medium-wide shots, almost losing these characters in their rich environments, and a sound design that risks burying their dialogue in the surrounding noise and conversations. Altman used his innovative “Lion’s Gate 8 Track Sound System” to create and orchestrate the din, and wields it effectively; he’s more interested in the music of dialogue than the words and trusts the viewer to hear what’s important (even if it’s nothing in particular). This strategy is particularly effective here since peripheral people are frequently stumbling into Bill and Charlie’s world for brief guest stints in their lives; many of the bit players and extras were real gamblers and weirdos, lending a shot of authenticity to their scenes.
More than anything, “California Split” is true to the rhythms (monotony, even) of the gambler’s life: occasional jolts of exhilaration, buffered by an overriding sense of desperation and melancholy. These people spend their days and nights chasing the adrenaline shot of the win, and Altman dramatizes those moments (most memorably near the end, when Bill joyfully exclaims, “I got it, Charlie”).
But he also captures how quickly that moment passes, and how much time is spent in pursuit of the next. He does so most poignantly at the picture’s conclusion, in an incredible image of Bill, sitting off by himself, already crashing as Charlie literally cashes in their chips. Paul Lohmann’s camera pushes in slowly, as Bill realizes – simultaneously with the viewer – that even though he landed the Big Score he’s been waiting for, it didn’t change a damn thing. And it never will.
Or, as Charlie puts it just a few minutes earlier, “I’m just havin’ a nervous breakdown. Money can’t do me nothin’ cause I ain’t got none. Just keep on winnin’, ok?”
“California Split” is now streaming on Amazon Prime.