“That there’s some acknowledgement of dark things on the edge of the frame, in the moments between the smiles, makes Ross Whitaker’s film” worth a watch.
Ireland, the 1980s. A miserable place to be. Even if on the daily, Facebook scroll-fodder would have me believe otherwise: We rose with the sun and didn’t come home ’til dark; Who remembers the ice cream man?
Grim scene-setting archival footage in Ross Whitaker’s new documentary, Beat the Lotto, shows the era in a less rosy glow calling to mind another evergreen Facebook newsfeed favourite: “No Cash, No Hope and No Jobs”.
Introduced at the tail end of the ’80s the lotto was a sliver of hope for a hopeless nation. Or at least, that’s the narrative that the higher-ups at the lottery present in footage of press conferences and big cheque photo ops.
Front and centre is Ray Bates, the then head of the lotto. He’s all smiles and jumpers and plays the accordion. A friendly face for the tantalising promise that anyone could win the jackpot. “It could be you …”
The lottery didn’t just offer hope for the punters putting up their pounds every week, it presented opportunities for intrepid go-getters as well. Enterprising sorts jumped at a chance to cash-in on the nation’s lotto fever.
To wit: Stefan Klincewicz, an antique stamp dealer, number cruncher and author of a small press cash-grab book Systems to Help You Win the Lotto.
Footage from the RTÉ archive sees Klincewicz face-to-face with Pat Kenny in smiling assassin mode on Kenny Live. Kenny has questions (and doubts) about Klincewicz’s methodology.
The book may not have made Klincewicz his fortune, but as Whitaker learns from the man himself, setbacks are temporary and all part of the thrill of the game.
Stefan Klincewicz is a very willing and forthcoming interviewee. He has a dramatic way about him. Sentences often surprise. I’d wager that very few people, if any, have ended an anecdote with the phrase “and that was my downfall as a philatelist …”
In all of Klincewicz’s stories there’s a push for more and better.
He talks about his fascination with numbers and systems. The lottery is his White Whale and in hunting it down he’s got to get a crew together and wait for just the right time to harpoon The Big One.
Klincewicz was sure that given the right circumstances it would be possible to buy the lottery jackpot by covering all possible numbers.
An investment of £980,000 could guarantee a jackpot of over £1 million. Phone calls are made, game participants are brought into the fold and dreams break free into reality.
It’s at this point that Whitaker’s film really begins to take off. The early scene-setting with television clips and talking heads feels staid and hemmed in. Small screen stuff, engaging but not overly exciting.
With the introduction of Klincewicz’s lottery plot and the other major players the scope widens, the pace quickens and Whitaker leans into the material with gusto.
“A group of reprobates” is how Stewart Kenny, the former chairman of Paddy Power, describes the 20 other members of the assembled lottery syndicate.
Smiling to the camera, Kenny is quick to add that he counts himself among them and that these dreaming schemers are his kind of people.
There’s a great That Guy … Who Was in That Thing character actor vibe from the syndicate crew. Klincewicz’s longtime friend and “business” “partner”, Paddy Kehoe is a particular highlight: racehorse owner, gambler, professional competition entrant.
Kehoe doesn’t sleep, he lives for a gamble. He met Klincewicz at a race track and ever since the pair have tried every opportunity going.
These kinds of details, largely throwaway against the machinations of the bigger plot, are intriguing. Underneath all the smiling and good-natured reminiscences there’s a tangible sense of sweaty, shadowy goings-on too.
Whitaker never basks in this darkness, but the hints of it add some texture to a film that generally pitches itself as a good time, despite the undercurrent of that 1980s desperation still flowing along into the 1990s.
Heists are a core film feature going back to the Silent Era. The set-up, the wheels within wheels, the turning of the cogs in the machine, whatever the metaphor, it’s a pleasure to watch a plan in motion.
The plan, in this case, is to exploit a rollover jackpot and a special promotional match 4 and 5 numbers for extra prizes gimmick to almost, almost, ensure a jackpot win.
Whitaker films the behind-the-scenes preparation in dramatic close up photography. Boxes and boxes filled with pre-filled lottery vouchers, envelopes and shadowy solicitors’ offices. The ramping up of the action plays well against the plainer elements.
Just when the weight of talking heads and archive footage threaten to dampen the thrills and spills of the story, Whitaker goes to a wide-angle aerial shot, or shows a ticking clock. The tension is real. At times feeling like a preview of some alternate universe feature-film version of the same story.
And what’s better than a plan coming together? A plan falling apart of course. Lotto chief Ray Bates, determined to uphold the integrity of the lottery and what he perceives as the fairness of the game, has to remain one step ahead of the syndicate.
What comes next is a race from newsagent to petrol station to corner shop by the syndicate members, their families and friends to try and scoop up as many tickets as possible before Lottery HQ shuts down the machines remotely.
Whitaker realises this section in a kinetic style, more cinematic than previous dramatised sequences. That the lottery tickets are transported in beat-up Ford Cortinas and Tayto multipack boxes speaks to the inherent scrappy charm of Klincewicz’s syndicate and their ragtag quest.
As much as Bates is quick to condemn their actions, and tsk-tsk the gamesmanship that undermines his pitching of the lottery as a game for everyone, there’s something appealing about these gambling, rambling chancers coming together and proving that it could be and can be you and you and you and you.
The press coverage around the lotto plot framed the conflict as a man-vs-machine, sorta David versus Goliath face-off. The syndicate made national and international press.
The event became folklore. I remember my dad telling me a tall-tale version of Klincewicz’s story, in which the disgraced philatelist got his revenge on the system that had wronged him.
Whitaker’s film shows that’s not all that true. The results and aftermath of Klincewicz’s scheme don’t quite live up to the edge-of-your-seat set-up.
In the end, everyone comes off as a winner. Klincewicz’s crew won, but two other winning tickets were sold that weekend in Finglas and Newbridge too, so the prize was split three ways.
The shared jackpot drew more chuckles from Pat Kenny and the studio audience when the results were read live on air. The integrity of the lottery remains intact, Klincewicz and co. claim their winnings as folk heroes.
Beat the Lotto is charming because it leans into the legend. The smiling faces, laughing interviewees and sweeping visuals have the film end up a lot like those pesky nostalgia memes: We drove all around the place like it was nothing. We drank with our friends. We beat the lotto.
That there’s some acknowledgement of dark things on the edge of the frame, in the moments between the smiles, makes Whitaker’s film, unlike so many nostalgia grabs, worth engaging with.
The eponymous debut album from the band Throwing Shapes is due for release on 7 September.
When Murky Anyango started to record what would eventually become her debut album, she wanted it to be a solo endeavour in every respect.
Embracing “Grimy aesthetics, edgy soundscapes, songs that are short for a scrolling economy, a general sense of living on the internet”.
“The biggest thing that happens here and the most fantastic thing to see is people feel they own it,” says organiser Kamil Che.
