Photo by Jeremy Yap on Unsplash

As the 30th anniversary of Casino approaches, Martin Scorsese’s 1995 masterpiece remains one of the boldest and most immersive depictions of power, greed, and vice ever committed to film. Though often compared to Goodfellas due to its similar storytelling structure, it stands apart in its grand scale and brutal honesty.

Set in the high-stakes world of 1970s Las Vegas, Casino is a visceral, glittering saga that explores the intersection of legitimate business and organised crime, brought to life by three of Scorsese’s most intense character studies. Even decades later, Casino continues to resonate, not only as a time capsule of a city in transition but also as a profound cinematic statement.

The movie’s influence stretches far beyond film buffs and mob movie fans. It helped solidify the image of Las Vegas as a place where power struggles and lavish rewards collide, an idea that continues to shape the perception of gambling today.

It even inspired aspects of the modern online casino world. According to Andreea Stanescu, for residents of Singapore, online casinos have adopted features such as large welcome bonuses, rewarding loyalty programmes, and quick withdrawals—mechanics that mirror the allure and reward system seen in the casinos portrayed in Casino.

The larger-than-life ambience, the psychology of the gambler, and the idea of chance and consequence, all explored so vividly in the film, have become foundational tropes in how digital gambling experiences are marketed and structured.

At its core, Casino is based on real people and real events, giving the entire narrative a weight and authenticity that’s rare. Robert De Niro plays Sam “Ace” Rothstein, a Jewish gambling expert based on Frank Rosenthal, who ran several Vegas casinos on behalf of the Chicago mob. Joe Pesci plays Nicky Santoro, a violent enforcer modelled after Anthony Spilotro, and Sharon Stone’s Ginger McKenna is inspired by Geri McGee, a showgirl and socialite with a tragic arc.

These aren’t Hollywood exaggerations; they’re grounded, complex characters based on people who walked the neon-lit halls of real-life Vegas. Their stories were lifted from investigative journalism, not just screenwriting imagination, as the script was co-written by Scorsese and Nicholas Pileggi, the author of Casino: Love and Honor in Las Vegas.

Visually, Casino is unmatched in its portrayal of Las Vegas. Many films use the city as a backdrop for shallow glitz and glamour, but Scorsese captures both the façade and the rotten core underneath. Whether it’s the spinning roulette wheels or the smoky back rooms where money is skimmed off the top, the contrast between appearance and reality is laid bare.

Unlike most productions, Scorsese filmed Casino in an actual casino—The Riviera—which had operated since the 1950s and closed its doors decades later. The realism doesn’t stop at the décor. Dealers, pit bosses, and customers in the background scenes were real employees and patrons, enhancing the authenticity and atmosphere.

The cast alone is enough to justify Casino’s place among Scorsese’s greatest works. De Niro, a frequent Scorsese collaborator, delivers one of his last truly layered performances as a man torn between the control he exercises in his professional life and the chaos of his personal world. Joe Pesci, arguably even more menacing here than in Goodfellas, makes Santoro’s unpredictable violence feel terrifyingly real.

And then there’s Sharon Stone. Her portrayal of Ginger McKenna is nothing short of spectacular. She embodies vulnerability, cunning, and addiction with such skill that it earned her an Oscar nomination. Her descent from socialite to a ghost of her former self is both tragic and deeply moving, making her the emotional anchor of the film.

What makes Casino exceptional isn’t just the acting or visuals; it’s the sheer scope of the narrative. It’s not merely about a few criminals running a casino—it’s a sweeping tale of how organised crime built a city and how corporate interests swept in to claim it.

The movie shows how power shifted from mob hands to corporate boardrooms, reshaping Las Vegas into the polished tourism hub it is today. The underlying message is that corruption doesn’t vanish—it just changes form. The criminals in suits eventually replace the gangsters in tracksuits.

The violence in Casino is another aspect that distinguishes it. Every act of brutality feels deliberate, rooted in fact rather than flourish. From car bombs to vice-grip torture, every scene is based on something that actually happened. These aren’t just set pieces; they are brutal reminders of the stakes involved. Unlike stylised violence used for shock value, Scorsese uses it to reflect the real consequences of power and betrayal.

Despite running for close to three hours, Casino is tightly constructed. The editing by Thelma Schoonmaker, Scorsese’s long-time collaborator, ensures that not a single moment feels wasted. From the opening explosion to the final narration about Vegas’ transformation, the film maintains its momentum.

The voiceovers, a Scorsese signature, offer deep insights into character motives and inner conflicts without ever feeling like exposition. The soundtrack too, filled with classic rock, jazz, and pop, works perfectly to underscore the era and emotion of each scene.

There’s also a strong emotional core in Casino. Unlike many crime films that glamorise the lifestyle, Casino shows the human cost. These people are not heroes. They are driven by greed, ego, and fear. Still, by the time their downfall arrives—whether by overdose, exile, or murder—there’s a strange sense of sympathy. You don’t forgive them, but you understand them. The tragedy isn’t just their demise, but that they believed they could beat the system.

Three decades on, Casino hasn’t lost any of its shine. If anything, it has grown in cultural relevance. Its themes of control, corruption, and reinvention echo through every modern depiction of gambling, from the dazzling floors of integrated resorts to the algorithm-driven world of online casinos.