If you could sum up Hustlers in one scene, it would be Jennifer Lopez writhing around a stripper pole in a gold thong bikini, caressing herself with dollar bills flung from a salivating male audience. It represents confidence, pleasure, money—all things each character in this bawdy drama crave. It’s no wonder, then, that when Ramona leaves the stage clutching her windfall to her bosom, she whispers to newcomer Destiny (Constance Wu), “Doesn’t money make you horny?”

It’s not just the fantasy of sex that the protagonists of writer/director Lorene Scafaria’s new film offer. It’s the opportunity to get something in return from their seedy male admirers—businessmen coming straight from the financial district to shower them in blood money—that's orgasmic. These men are so consumed by their 10-digit salaries and presumed power over women who glide down a pole for a living that they don’t even recognize when they’re being scammed.

Constance Wu and Jennifer Lopez in Hustlers.

But scamming isn't how Ramona would describe her new gig, drugging male clients and running up their credit cards at the club for a commission after the 2008 stock market crash leaves her, Destiny, Mercedes (Keke Palmer), and Annabelle (Lili Reinhart) desperate to make a living. It’s probably how a man would describe it, reducing the women to half-naked, half-witted criminals robbing the rich white men who objectify them. As Scafaria revealed at a Toronto International Film Festival panel this month, even some of the male executives to whom she and her team first pitched the film suggested that the female characters only con “the bad guys.” That’s what’s so fascinating about Hustlers. It doesn’t cast anyone—not the female criminals, nor their male clients—as villains. Everyone in the film is trying to make a buck, get off, and gain power, and they all use each other to get there.

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Inspired by the real-life events chronicled in Jessica Pressler's 2015 New York Magazine story, “The Hustlers at Scores,” the movie takes time to examine the context we often ignore when we talk about women, men, sex, and power. When Destiny first sees Ramona commanding the stage to the beat of Fiona Apple’s “Criminal”—one of the many wonderfully on-the-nose song choices in the film—she, like everyone else, is captivated by Ramona's sexuality, her ability to have every man in the room eating out of the palm of her hand. There is never a sense that Ramona or any of the dancers at the club are being objectified. Rather, they are in full control (cue Janet Jackson’s “Control,” heard elsewhere in the movie) of their bodies, and very intentional about how they use them.

With Hustlers, Scafaria has exposed another layer to the conversation around women’s ownership of their bodies, similar to how artists like Ariana Grande and Beyoncé use their sexuality and the art of slow motion to make a feminist statement in their music videos. There’s a scene early in the film where Ramona and Destiny bond with their colleagues (including two played by Cardi B and Lizzo) about vibrators and double-D boob jobs in the strip club dressing room. The moment is funny and light while also pointing to the strippers’ total autonomy. There is no sense of shame or shyness; their power comes from complete ownership of their sexuality and comfort in speaking about their bodies—none of which are tied to a single man. What these women say, how they act, and how they unapologetically navigate their world sets the tone for the entire film. We see that same sense of ferocious independence when Ramona, Destiny, Mercedes, and Annabelle roll up to the bar as “sisters” searching for their next scam.

Lili Reinhart, Jennifer Lopez, Keke Palmer, and Constance Wu star in Hustlers.

That sense of autonomy is ultimately what drives each woman to commit her crimes. Destiny says repeatedly that she wants to take care of her grandmother and longtime guardian (Wai Ching Ho) and her young daughter Lily (Scarlett Sher) without depending on a man. Ramona is equally attracted to the thought of giving her own daughter everything she deserves while maintaining a Manhattan penthouse (supplied by one of her regular clients) and the respect she’s earned among her colleagues. The motivations of these very different women, whose personal and familial nuances are compellingly portrayed by Lopez and Wu, represent the same side of the American dream. The same is true for Annabelle and Mercedes, who are just trying to get by. They scheme only when all other options, including minimum-wage retail jobs, fail.

The sisterhood that develops between Destiny and Ramona is an increasingly gripping undercurrent in Hustlers, even when their friendship is at its most toxic, like when Ramona calls Destiny an “ungrateful bitch” for apologizing to one of their victims, a man desperate to get back the money for his mortgage. Stripping, then stealing, is Ramona’s lifeline, the place where she can sustain the same sense of power so easily granted to her male clients. She is the oldest member of their crew, and despite her six-pack abs and killer twerk, feels the threat of losing her money the hardest. She knows “you can’t dance forever” and has to contend with her fading youth and appeal more than anyone else. That’s why Lopez’s performance, her career best, resonates so much; she too has had to contend with young white Hollywood for decades. Her needs and Ramona’s are amazingly aligned.

Constance Wu and Jennifer Lopez in Hustlers

In the midst of highlighting the criminal underbelly of the female have-nots, Scafaria carefully weaves a complex, thoughtful story of friendship—and neither element undercuts the other. Ramona's desperate, sometimes frantic, desire for money blends with a genuine commitment to her relationship with Destiny. She wants them to rise up together, even if her motivations are particularly personal. With Hustlers, Scafaria doesn’t tell us whether to respect or condemn the hustle or the Wall Streeters’ sketchy deals that contribute to the market collapse. Instead, she’s given us an unflinching story that is grounded in a woman’s struggle to stay on top, no matter the cost.

Candice Frederick is a freelance TV/film critic living in New York City. You can find more of her work here. Follow her on Twitter. 

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