‘Ballad of a Small Player’ isn’t worth the gamble
All flash and no substance, Edward Berger’s “Ballad of a Small Player” wagers everything on Colin Farrell’s roguish gambler and comes up with a losing hand. It’s a major disappointment arriving in the wake of the director’s towering achievements, “All Quiet on the Western Front” and “Conclave,” both Best Picture nominees.
Where those films stirred genuine emotions, “Ballad of a Small Player” keeps you at a remote distance from Farrell’s Lord Doyle, a duplicitous dandy bedecked in a burgundy blazer and a silk ascot whose addiction to betting big on baccarat leaves him in serious arrears. He’s in so deep, that the casinos of Macau have not so politely asked him to leave their premises. But he’s not going anywhere until – drumroll – he makes that one last bank-breaking score.
So, we spend the next 100 minutes watching him con, grovel, and sweet-talk gullible folks into extending him more credit and time in pursuit of that goal. The grab, if there is one, is that his Lord Doyle is a charismatic enigma wrapped up in a cliché. And Farrell does his damnedest to sell it with his inherent charm and presence. But Berger repeatedly hampers those efforts by engulfing his star in technicolor visuals.
Admittedly, they are spectacular. The colors are as loud as they are vibrant, enabling Berger to create a kaleidoscopic fever dream that perfectly complements the story’s supernatural undercurrent.
Is Lord Doyle what the locals call a gweilo, a ghost? If so, he’s not what you’d describe as a haunting specter. Frustrating is more like it. You want to know and understand him, but Berger and writer Rowan Joffe (“The American”) don’t permit it, preferring to portray Doyle as just another element in a series of pretty, moody pictures that seemingly aim to pay slavish homage to the style of Wong Kar-wai (“In the Mood for Love”), sans the soul and substance.
The result is aesthetically breathtaking, but as empty as Lord Doyle’s pockets. Yet, you ride along, propelled by your curiosity over where in the hell this convoluted narrative is destined. If you’ve read Lawrence Osborne’s source novel, you’ll be ahead of the curve. But if you’re like me, you’re bound to be utterly confused by a script that consistently mistakes shallowness for depth.
There are only hints at Lord Doyle’s true persona. Most of them provided by Tilda Swinton’s quirky private detective, Cynthia Blithe, who has come all the way from London to hunt down Doyle and recover the huge sum of money the former barrister embezzled from her elderly client.
With her unruly curly coif, sensible, oversized shoes and funky pink spectacles, Swinton, like the movie, is all about the look. We learn little about her Blithe other than she, too, finds Doyle dangerously disarming. He suggests dinner and a dance. She reciprocates by abetting his habit. Same for Dao Ming (Fala Chen), the hotel executive (she was a prostitute in the novel), whose beauty and compassion catch Doyle off guard. But don’t expect anything romantic to develop. Well, except for a seaside one-night stand.
She does, however, play a major role in Doyle’s supposed absolution as he suddenly embarks on a hot streak, so on fire that he dares to take on his two biggest nemesis, a wealthy tormentor calling herself Grandma (Deanie Ip) and an equally mysterious moneybags named Adrian Lippett (Alex Jennings).
All ante up for the film’s twisty ending, a coda that regrettably doesn’t ring true. But it does enable Doyle to go out in a blaze of glory. And redemption, of course. If only we cared. You don’t. And that’s what renders “Ballad of a Small Player” the quintessential sucker bet.
Movie review
Ballad of a Small Player
Rated: R for language
Cast: Colin Farrell, Tilda Swinton, Fala Chen, Deanie Ip and Alex Jennings
Director: Edward Berger
Writer: Rowan Joffe
Runtime: 102 minutes
Where: Currently in theaters and debuting on Netflix on Oct. 29
Grade: C+
