“If it takes a watermelon five minutes to water, how long will it take a sweet pea to pee? As long as it takes a pair of dice to crap.”
Robert Altman and Elliot Gould were untouchable for a short stint in the 1970s, stringing together a trio of films that typify Altman’s naturalistic style and maverick production techniques. Their first pairing was the military satire M*A*S*H* that spawned the hit television show. The second was the divergent take on Raymond Chandler’s detective novel, The Long Goodbye. Their third and final collaboration1 was California Split, an ode to obsessive gambling and the hollow thrills that the high-rolling lifestyle often brings. Gould’s improvisational skills meld perfectly with Altman’s loose style as the actor plays off co-star George Segal like a freestyling virtuoso. Tied up for years over music licensing issues, the version available today is an alternate cut that switches up some of the soundtrack and excises a few minutes of footage.
California Split was the first film to ever use an eight track recorder, implemented at Altman’s insistence when he grew exasperated with sound mixers complaining that his actors were not delivering their lines loudly enough—lines that were oftentimes improvised. He countered that the issue did not stem from the actors but from inadequate recording techniques. His solution was to pepper his sets with microphones, then shoot his scenes without fussing over the sound. Proportioning the channels then became an art unto itself and often uncovered “happy accidents” amidst the overlapping dialogue. Indeed, the unstructured nature of the dialogue is one of the primary joys of California Split, as Altman allows his actors, including extras, to carry on relaxed, natural conversations and react to their fellow cast members as they saw fit. Moving about sets and using random bits of mise-en-scène as props are the norm, and if a stray line of background dialogue seems to fit better than the line from the script, Altman adjusts the knobs and gives that voice prominence. This successful experiment in sound design encouraged the director and for his very next feature, Nashville, he opted to feature twenty-four main characters instead of just two (in theory, at least). For A Wedding, he doubled that to forty-eight.
Anyway, the plot, which isn’t very prominent, kicks off when Charlie Waters (Gould) is accused of running a poker game with the dealer, Bill Denny (Segal). They’ve never met, but after having too much to drink at a nearby bar, sleepily betting on the names of the Seven Dwarves, riffing on a popular showtune, and getting jointly mugged and robbed by the sore loser of the poker game, they become fast friends. Charlie’s a wisecracking adrenaline junkie always looking for the next score. He bets on everything—poker, roulette, blackjack, slots, craps, boxing, horse racing, you name it. He even bets on himself in a game of one-on-one basketball against some college punks. George works a conventional job at a magazine but quickly catches the bug from his new friend. When his bookie (screenwriter Joseph Walsh, himself a recovering gambling addict) refuses to lend him any more money, Bill pawns his possessions and makes plans to lay it all on the line in Reno. Initially skeptical, Charlie comes around, travelling with his buddy and supplementing his funds, leading to a cool $82k of winnings. Coming off his momentary high, Bill no longer feels a draw to the mystical sensation of the hot streak, and he and Charlie amicably part ways.
More important than the meandering narrative for achieving Altman’s signature free-spirited tone is the presentation of a fragmented mosaic composed of chance encounters with colorful characters. Among the quirky roles are the greasy Lew (Edward Walsh—Joseph’s brother), who mugs Charlie twice before Charlie gets his revenge and his money back; the pair of prostitutes (Ann Prentiss and Gwen Welles) who live with Charlie; an early-career cameo from a smooth-talking Jeff Goldbum; Barbara Ruick (wife of famed composer John Williams) as a saucy barmaid; real life poker champion Amarillo Slim playing himself; and the risqué-for-1974 cross-dressing “Helen” (Bert Remsen) who has hired Charlie’s roommates for the night. The encounter with the latter plays out humorously, as Bill and Charlie are shooed out of the house just before the arrival of Helen, who is nervous about the fetish becoming public knowledge. The gambling buddies shuffle out the back door, peek in the window and assess the situation, then bust in the front door pretending to be police officers. California Split is full of these beautifully messy scenes that feel only half-composed, plunging us into malleable, unstructured situations and letting them play out.
Joseph Walsh’s script passed through several sets of hands, including those of pre-Jaws Spielberg, before arriving in Altman’s lap. Apparently, that pair worked on the script together for many months and had arranged for the rookie director to make the film before the deal fell through. To take such a personal, labored-over piece of work and hand it off to a director known for ignoring what the script dictates was a gamble in and of itself, but being on set, Walsh was able to exert a modicum of control over Altman. Parsing what is scripted and what is improvised is almost impossible to do without the commentary track featuring Altman, Gould, Segal, and Walsh, and getting into the weeds with that is fascinating for those interested in how all the various talents coalesce into the finished product we see on screen. When the scripted and improvised overlap, with the whole set miked and peripheral characters given occasional prominence—these moments are when those sublime Altman flourishes tend to occur.
If for no other reason, California Split is worth seeing for the intertwined performances of Gould and Segal. The shape-shifting milieu of outsiders populating Altman’s world provide a splendid backdrop, but it’s the central performances that make it shine. Watching these two play off one another like jazz musicians—relaxed and spirited, entirely in their element, inspiring one another—is a pure joy to behold.
1. Gould makes cameo appearances as himself in both Nashville and The Player that I’m discounting.