The Cincinnati Kid is Steve McQueen, cast as a cool, professional poker player with his eye on the long chance. Under a circle of light in a smoke-clogged New Orleans hotel room, The Kid sweats it out with a full house while The Man (Edward G. Robinson) ups the stakes on what may or may not be a straight flush. The pot runs to thousands, but this game means more than money. The Man is Lancey Howard, undisputed king of stud poker for more than 30 years, and he knows that the crusty young challenger across the baize means to gut him.
The card duel between the two hot-handed pros generates all the expected tension, and Director Norman Jewison exploits it fully. The grim-to-garish background seems authentic. The jargon sounds right. And McQueen v. Robinson put on a bristling good show whenever they interrupt their marathon long enough for a few words of subtly guarded small talk—about health, luck, woman trouble, anything that might make an opponent's mind wander.
However, nearly everything about Cincinnati Kid is reminiscent of The Hustler. Director Jewison can put his cards on the table, let his camera cut suspensefully to the players' intent faces, but a pool shark sinking a tricky shot into a side pocket undoubtedly offers more range. Kid also has a less compelling subplot. Away from the table, McQueen gambles on a blonde (Tuesday Weld) and on the integrity of his dealer pal, Karl Maiden. Pressure comes from a conventionally vicious Southern gentleman (Rip Torn), whose pleasures include a Negro mistress, a pistol range adjacent to his parlor, and fixed card games. As Maiden's wife, Ann-Margret spells trouble of another kind, though her naive impersonation of a wicked, wicked woman recalls the era when the femme fatale wore breastplates lashed together with spider web. By the time all the bets are in, Cincinnati Kid appears to hold a losing hand.