Review - The Ballad of a Small Player
Directed by: Edward Berger
Written by: Rowan Joffe
Starring: Colin Farrell, Fala Chen
Running Time: 102 Minutes
Rating: 2/5
A fantastical sweat-soaked fantasy across the neon lights of Macau; Edward Berger’s newest feature is a foray into gambling hell - a misfire of epic proportions, an exponentially boring character study that wastes a great performance from Colin Farrell.
A royal flush.
Addiction, at its core, is an architecture built to collapse — ornate façades masking a foundation that is slowly caving in. Edward Berger’s The Ballad of a Small Player, adapted from Lawrence Osborne’s 2011 novel, maps a descent through the neon-lit corridors of Macau. On paper, the film boasts a match made in cinematic heaven - Colin Farrell, flushed to the nines in a facade of masked identities and charades and Edward Berger, fresh off of his previous films in Conclave and All Is Quiet in the Western Front. And yet, what is pitched as an intoxicating high-roller fantasy soon reveals itself as a hollow hand; a film that boasts itself in a bluff of style and flashbangs - while holding little in the way of anything of substance.
Farrell plays Lord Doyle, a man who once swaggered through casinos but now scrounges for buffets, hotel rooms, and fine suits he never pays for. He drifts through Macau’s rain-slicked streets, all silk and shadow, charming and pathetic in equal measure. It’s a shame, as Farrell’s performance is one that is captivating and enthralling anytime he’s on screen - but unfortunately, Farrell’s performance can’t help a sinking ship. Like Doyle, the self-destruction never feels like a crushing weight - no emotional reckoning, just a shuffle from one IOU to the next. The stakes don’t ever feel heightened and the film feels stuck in a state of purgatory.
Berger adapts Lawrence Osborne’s 2011 novel with grandiose flair. The camera sweeps, pans, and spins with intoxicating electricity, catching glimmers of neon, the sheen of wet pavement, the feverish pull of the roulette wheel. Even with all of the sensory flair - the film still feels like a shameful night out - dizzying and fascinating in the moment, but soulless, hollow and an absolute headache of a hangover once the house lights come on.
Even as Farrell’s magnetic performance propels this film forward, the script leaves much less to be desired. Doyle’s relentless push forward feels as like indulgent excess; a nightmareish fever dream that maybe - is the soul of the film? Berger’s film is all shimmer, no soul. A major disappointment from a top tier director and an actor at the prime of his career.
When the cards are laid down, The Ballad of A Small Player almost feels like a funeral march of this pairing - a cocktail of booze, glamour and emptiness that looks to hypnotize and entrance - but to what end?
Like myself, at the centre of the orchestra for this premiere; The Ballad of A Small Player left me broke at my table, wondering what might have been if I put it all on black.
