John Butler flew to Las Vegas to make The Million Dollar Deal, a documentary on the 1998 World Series of Poker (RTE 1, Tuesday, 10.10 p.m.). It's a four-day tournament with a £1-million-dollar first prize. These are excerpts from his diary.
Day One
Flying to Las Vegas, suspended somewhere over the mid-west. Precarious. Late last night, casino management withdrew permission for us to film in the card room. Wasn't this the town where you can't bring a handycam into a casino? How can we sneak a broadcast camera, sound kit and crew, director and producer inside, without it being picked up on one of the 800 surveillance cameras?
Another sour note. Our only confirmed interview subject was getting cold feet. He's lost a packet since arriving in Vegas, doesn't need the distraction.
Day Two
Culture shock. Disappointed to see every breakfast at "IHOP" served with pancakes. Waitress points out the acronym. It's the "International House Of Pancakes". Withdraw protest, eat up. Arrive at accommodation. The Four Queens hotel, across Fremont Street from Binion's Horseshoe, the casino where it's all happening. Get over to the tournament. Organisers agree to give us two hours in the card room - will it be enough? Meet Andrew, our interview subject. We are in Las Vegas. We have called his bluff. Eat like wild animals from the free buffet. Sleep inevitable.
Day Three
Each poker player is friendlier than the last. Record interviews with six of them. A funny bunch. Like Liam Flood from Maynooth. A rangy old schoolboy, giving me a hard time. "Leave the kids alone!" Andrew bellows. Andrew is our ticket into the players' area. The tournament starts in two days. He seems relaxed.
Day Four
Flamboyant French actor Patrick Bruell wins a minor tournament. We interview him. Luke suggests to him that poker might be his life. "I'm a lover too!" he insists. We're running out of interview locations. Rent a limo for an interview with a real cowboy. Now we're getting into it. Free meals in the casino means per diems for gambling . . . Spend the night trying to break the wheel. Ross (the sound man) wins a packet playing blackjack.
Day Five
Tournament starts. Three-hundred-and-thirty players reduced to 200 in eight hours. Matt Damon is playing. Hounded by the tabloid press for an interview. Luke (our producer) steals a march on them by playing next to him, scoring an interview mid-game. The tabloid press froths in anger. Now Larry Flint is in the building. Can't find him, though. This place is a maze.
Day Six
Filmed all day in the card room. Pearls of wisdom everywhere. "If you can't spot the sucker in your first half-hour at the table, you are the sucker." The shoot is going well ever since we weakened the security guard's resolve. "Come on, we're Irish!" We're all over the card room, filming hands and action. Night-time means gambling. Spill a Bloody Mary on the green baize of the blackjack table at 6 a.m. Looks great. Then I'm out the door. Am enjoying this. Won $250 in two hours. Don't know how much I have now. Am playing with Luke and Andrew. He nicks $100 in chips from me, throws it on the craps board and chases two dice past it before I can say a word. Can't remember if he won.
Day Seven
Third day of the tournament. Is it my imagination or are there a lot more scantily-clad women cruising the card room now than on day one? Tension rising. Play continues until there are seven left. A long day. Looks like we've got some interesting characters, too. Final day will be in a smaller room.
Secure camera positions, then go out to shoot the strip at nine. Blazing neon comes up nicely on camera. Get in the elevator to go home. It's talking to me. It's saying "remember to avail of our 99 cents shrimp cocktail". I head for the all-night buffet.
Day Eight
Awoke sick as a pike. Shrimp or nerves? We have our production meeting in a rooftop swimming pool. Today, there's a new champion in the world series of poker. We got the last interview before he played, and the first after he won. Time for him to celebrate. Time for us to win some money for presents.
Am $900 up when the casino lights are dimmed. What's going on? Croupier tells me Frank Sinatra died today . . .
5 a.m. Sitting at a 10-dollar table. There's a floorman supervising each table in the casino. Standing above mine is a colossal enforcer, chewing on a cigar. The name tag says Nick. A guy sits down sits down beside me. "You're Irish? Guinness!" Drags me onto politics.
Day Nine
Morning comes, and I'm talking to an English poker player. He used to play cards and snooker with Jimmy White. Jimmy signed his son's cue. Recalls how Jimmy used be driven around London snooker halls at 15 hustling games under the wing of a minicab driver. How uneasy I felt watching him lose a bundle of money at craps, getting angry, and maybe a little bit drunk. Might be time to cut my losses. Time to leave Las Vegas . . .