THE LUCKIEST MAN IN AMERICA

Life can change in an instant—all one requires is the perfect opportunity. Such underlies society’s longstanding fascination with televised game shows, demonstrations of skill—and, yes, luck—holding the potential to transform everyday individuals into worldwide tales of success. So, too, does this form the basis of The Luckiest Man in America: a fictionalized exposé of Michael Larson’s historic $110,237 win on game show “Press Your Luck,” a value nearly six figures greater than any one contestant had won before—and the commencement of a scandal that would forever rock the ’80s television landscape.

From the moment Michael (Paul Walter Hauser) first graces the screen, he is presented as a perplexing figure: carefully-constructed persona, edges barely beginning to fray, as he poses as a dashing ingénue, attempting to forge his way into a coveted audition. It’s unorthodox, his approach to accruing notice: disconcerting, even. Still, the sob story he concocts—a lifelong fascination with the show’s mechanics, a family tradition held over a shared breakfast, a desire to forge a better life for his school-aged daughter—gleams with a kernel of authenticity, perhaps a tad of desperation: a combination convincing enough to strike the studio executives where they are softest. After a moment of contemplation, a verdict is reached: Larson will be brought into the succeeding taping of “Press Your Luck,” permitted to compete for the jackpot on live television.

Such is the setting in which, from that moment forward, the audience is swiftly whisked. For the remainder of the runtime, it is the CBS Television Studio backdropping his endeavours, a situational decision that, though daring, successfully immerses the viewer entirely into the adrenaline-rife moment of the taping. Here, we meet show host Peter Tomarken (Walton Goggins), a striking performance delivered by one of the moment’s most noteworthy stars. Goggins shines, charisma seeping through every pore of his performance; it is a role, it seems, for which he has been borne, anchoring the succeeding events with levity, charm, gravitas. There may be an unusual transition here and there—a screen wipe, akin to the unusual transitions in ’70s classic A New Hope. Alas, it matters not. The moment Goggins’ voice booms through the floodlit studio, golden lights illuminating the neon board before him, all focus snaps imminently to attention. He is commanding, Goggins, and it is simply marvellous; in a film comprised of many a solid performance, his, perhaps, is that which stands out most.

The production design is similarly remarkable, seamlessly immersing the viewer within the 1980s game-show environment. With just a handful of sparsely-decorated rooms—independent filmmaking techniques displayed at their very finest—one is instantly transported into the bustle of TV production. It’s here where the supporting cast most accentuates: Maisie Williams’ Sylvie, Charon-like figure, guides Michael—and us viewers—down the labyrinthine corridors of CBS Studios. David Strathairn, pitch-perfect epitome of executive Bill Carruthers, haunts the back rooms, overbearingly protective of the show, the legacy, precariously crumbling around him. It’s through their gaze, their reactions—subtle, fleeting, and yet  effectual nonetheless—that the scandal finds its weight. Everybody, after all, does love an everyman: it is through them that Michael’s seeming success truly begins to take effect; they are the conduit through which the audience understands the impact of his actions.

Director Samir Oliveros—and editor Sebastian Hernandez—then perform the most miraculous feat of all: successfully maintaining expertly-consistent pacing. Never does the film feel underbaked; not once does a scene overstay its welcome. The moment the film transitions to that CBS locale—the greater world, shrinking simply to a soundstage—it becomes nothing short of exhilarating. Oliveros and co. introduce us to a fast-paced hub, television magic transforming dreams into reality—and, much like a dazzled Larson, it is impossible to not feel exhilarated by the sheer possibility abound. Bulb flashes, gleams of gold, a brightly-lit, period-perfect set; a bass-boosted techno score, perhaps the greatest since last year’s Challengers: the culmination of cinematic elements coalesce to craft the most commanding of moments, one impossible to tear one’s eyes from. The 90 minutes fly by; as Larson begins his historic trail of button-presses, dollars racking up on the screen before him—as studio audiences ‘ooh’ and ‘aah,’ marvelling at the potential blossoming before their eyes—as the network executives begin to track his every movement, scrutinizing the tiniest of details, searching for a tell, a tale, a single whiff to clue them into how he has accrued such luck—we, the audience, are brought along for every step of the ride, a rollercoaster of ‘tension’ and ‘cathartic success’ that maintains one’s grip on the very edge of their seat.

Fascinating, Larson’s depiction seems to be. For better or worse, The Luckiest Man in America seems unwilling to commit to neither condemnation, nor endorsement of the Larson character. From the film’s opening moments, Larson is painted as a conman. A sympathetic one, perhaps; one whose sob story is able to shatter the fourth wall, executive Carruthers (David Strathairn) and audience alike yearning to take a chance on the underdog before us. Still, there are shots that linger, auditory cues unorthodoxly dissonant, extending just a hair too long to be of pure coincidence. ‘This is a man,’ they seem to suggest, ‘who is not to be trusted.’ So why, then, does the film fail to commit? It edges towards answers—oh, yes, edge it does, teasing a begotten history, personal betrayals, potentially a criminal offence—and yet, judgement never rises to fruition. It is almost as though there has been a conflation between “protagonist” and “hero”, a line the filmmakers were unwilling to cross: an unspoken acceptance of moral gray, yet dismissal of true admonition. A curious paradox is thus created: how are we to feel about Larson’s lucky streak? It is difficult to not find oneself rooting for him: the synth-laden freneticism of the score, the dopamine hit as we watch him struggle, gamble, win, coalesce into a semblance of sheer exhilaration. But there, in the very next frame: a ringing phone, piercing the ambience. A raised voice, a nervous tic: reminders, that this man is not entirely as he seems. In theory, maintaining such duality might have been intended to craft complexity. Alas, the failure to truly understand his motives instead keeps the audience at arm’s length, unable to discern whether our protagonist is one for whom to root—or to condemn.

That said, the film is not, at its heart, wholly about his single character. Michael Larson might have been the first to exploit the simplistic conventionalities of “Press Your Luck,” but the network executives mention it themselves: were it not exposed by him, it would have been by someone else, eventually. On the surface, The Luckiest Man in America may be Michael Larson’s exposé—but at its core, it sheaths two deeper explorations, both rife with universality: first, one’s frequent gravitation to the underdog; then, more subtle, yet just as impactful: the manner in which content can be shaped to provide maximal entertainment… at the cost of honour, truth, even another’s livelihood. Is it through these explorations that the film truly begins to flourish: as a biopic, yes, but also as a piece of art, fiction reflective of the worlds of both tomorrow and yesterday. We all, after all, wish to feel like a winner—and though it may not always hit the jackpot, Oliveros’ latest certainly lucks out where success is concerned.