Ace in the Hole

Billy Wilder's Ace in the Hole remains a masterclass in cynicism, even if the world it depicts has shifted beyond recognition. Kirk Douglas delivers one of his finest performances as Chuck Tatum, a disgraced reporter who transforms a man's entrapment in a collapsed cliff dwelling into a calculated media spectacle. Wilder's direction is sharp, controlled, ruthless; the film moves with the precision of a man tightening a noose. What's aged less gracefully is the premise itself. In an era where AI generates content and the few remaining journalists on the ground lack the luxury of time Tatum exploits so coldly, the mechanics of his manipulation feel like relics from another industry entirely. Tatum arrives in Albuquerque, fired from eleven newspapers for lying, drinking, and worse. He takes a job at a small-town paper, biding his time until he can claw his way back to the big leagues. When he stumbles upon Leo Minosa, trapped in a cave while hunting for Native American artifacts, Tatum sees his ticket out. He doesn't just report the story; he choreographs it, conspiring with a corrupt sheriff to delay the rescue, ensuring the drama stretches long enough to attract national attention. A carnival springs up around the site, Leo's wife profits from the crowds, and thousands gather to watch. Tatum gets his headlines. Douglas makes Tatum electric, a man whose charm and intelligence are inseparable from his cruelty. He doesn't play Tatum as a monster; he plays him as a man who believes the world owes him something and is willing to collect by any means necessary. It's a towering performance, one that carries the film even when the viewer's suspension of disbelief begins to fray. The notion that drilling from above wouldn't cause a cave-in, or that 1950s equipment could position itself with such confidence, strains credibility. But these are minor complaints in a film concerned less with engineering logistics than with moral collapse. What renders Ace in the Hole more artifact than warning is how thoroughly journalism has transformed. Tatum's slow-burn manipulation, his ability to camp out at the site and control the narrative for days, belongs to a media landscape that no longer exists. Today's news cycle doesn't allow for such patience; stories are algorithmically generated, attention spans measured in hours, not weeks. Yellow journalism persists, Fox News and its ilk trade in distortion and spectacle, and quality investigative reporting still exists, but the average person scrolling through their feed makes no distinction between the two. Tatum's brand of hands-on villainy has been replaced by something more diffuse, more automated, harder to identify. Yet the film endures as a study in systemic unscrupulousness. Tatum is the engine, but he's hardly alone. The sheriff sees political opportunity. Leo's wife sees profit. The public sees entertainment. Everyone colludes, everyone profits, and the man in the cave becomes the least important figure in his own tragedy. Wilder understands that corruption isn't an aberration; it's a collaboration. That insight hasn't aged a day. Ace in the Hole is worth watching for Douglas's ferocious performance and Wilder's command of craft. Its specific warnings about journalism may feel like dispatches from a distant era, but its broader indictment of opportunism, complicity, and the human appetite for spectacle remains uncomfortably sharp.