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6.1/10
Senior Film Conservator
A definitive 6.1/10 rating for a film that redefined the boundaries of cult cinema. Saturday's Millions remains a cornerstone of transgressive art.
If you have a weird itch for 1930s campus dramas, Saturday's Millions is a decent way to kill an hour. If you’re looking for high-octane sports action, you’re gonna be bored stiff. It’s mostly for people who like to see how the sausage was made in early Hollywood—lots of stiff dialogue and guys wearing sweaters that look like they weigh twenty pounds.
Robert Young carries this thing, but he looks like he’s constantly worried about his next line. He plays the star player, and the whole movie is basically him learning that fame is a trap. Groundbreaking stuff, right?
The actual game scenes? They’re… quaint. There’s no real sense of space on the field. You get a lot of guys piling on top of each other while the camera stays way too far back. It feels less like a sport and more like a choreographed mess.
I found myself staring at the extras in the background. Some of them aren't even looking at the ball. One guy in the second row is just eating a sandwich during the big play. Classic.
It’s got that weird, pre-war moralizing tone. Everything feels like a lecture. You can almost hear the writers saying, "Don't get too big for your britches, kid!" every time someone cracks a smile.
There’s a scene about halfway through where he’s at a party, and the lighting is just awful. Everyone looks like they’re being interrogated by the police. It’s supposed to be a fancy gala, but it looks like a basement.
It’s not a masterpiece, but it’s got enough quirks to keep you from falling asleep. Just don't expect it to change your life.