For whatever it’s worth—however little that may turn out to be—it would appear as though “Ballad of a Small Player” marks Edward Berger’s long-awaited (depending on who you ask) realization that maybe, just maybe, this whole “Serious Filmmaker(™)” avenue isn’t for him. Unfortunately, this realization had to result in what may yet be the director’s most inane and hollow offering—clouded in a dense fog of counterfeit neon lighting and cheap velour outfits without the self-awareness to make that kitschy aesthetic shine—but you know… silver linings, and all.
It isn’t so much that “Ballad of a Small Player” is a drastic departure from the steady, workman-masquerading-as-auteur business with which Berger has been dominating the awards circuit of late, but rather that this latest venture is all too eager to split the difference between amassed prestige and grade-it-on-a-curve silliness. Now that Berger is drowning in the success of his safe, moderate gambles, it was only a matter of time before his bets would become more unwieldy, blinded by the enticing twinkle of a Vegas-style marquee assuring him that the world is his.
This sort of blinding overconfidence is precisely what afflicts degenerate gambler Lord Doyle (Colin Farrell, sweating his way through inexpensive suits faster than he can change them between casino visits), who spends his days holed up in his Macau suite racking up expenses he can’t afford to pay off, and his nights at the baccarat table failing to achieve the means to get the concierge off his back. Like all gambling addicts, the rush of the perfect pair of cards is simply too enticing to even consider the phrase “Quit while you’re ahead,” which shouldn’t even concern Doyle in the midst of a losing streak to rival the Toronto Maple Leafs.
Doyle can’t stay hidden in his hotel forever. Though the allure of the table is just too strong, his eventual acquaintance with a credit lender named Dao Ming (Fala Chen) may prove to be the spark he needs to finally climb out of this gaping pit. No doubt boosting his sense of motivation is the presence of a private investigator (Tilda Swinton) representing parties to whom Doyle owes obscene amounts of money, for which he’ll be forced to settle, either with her or with the cops.
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Farrell’s steadfast commitment to tumbling his way through trashed suites, rain-drenched streets, and lonely hotel pools with all the misplaced confidence of Hillary Clinton on election night provides about as much entertainment as “Ballad of a Small Player” is willing to muster. Seemingly cognizant of the fact that there’s no chemistry with either of his primary co-stars to be had (how dare you waste Swinton in a part that could be played by just about anybody with bumbling poise!), Farrell carries the entirety of the film’s weight across the wrinkles adorning his face, each one the result of a mad eye-twitch or a vein-popping howl of short-lived victory.
It’s almost enough to make the game of baccarat enthralling, until about five seconds into any one of Doyle’s gambling escapades when you’re reminded of the fact that there’s no skill involved whatsoever in this game of chance; say whatever you will about “Casino Royale,” but at least a game like poker, even if you have no earthly inclination as to how it actually works (guilty), gives the impression that the player has some control over their fate. In a (generous) sense, you could argue that Berger’s chosen game thus fits better with the film’s thematic reach towards escaping a set destiny shaped by one’s own addictions, but even such a reading can’t suddenly make a journey so predicated on blind luck as enticing as Volker Bertelmann’s typically oppressive score would insist, no matter how aggressively Farrell bends his cards.
Berger—intent on escaping the for-hire stench that, in all likelihood, recently cost him an Oscar nomination in favor of reigning journeyman director James Mangold—injects “Ballad of a Small Player” with every ounce of oozing flair he and collaborating cinematographer James Friend can envision from a closeup of Farrell’s drenched brow. Admirable as these attempts are, the film sadly never escapes its underlying sense of anonymity because Berger’s inability to fully commit to a salacious atmosphere clashes heavily with the film’s Netflix-ready sensibilities.
It would almost be too on-the-nose for “Ballad of a Small Player” to have been set in Las Vegas rather than its chosen Macau, given the fact that the film, on the whole, largely comes across like a Vegas-style recreation of a more celebrated, meticulously designed structure found elsewhere; in creating the filmic equivalent of Vegas’s Eiffel Tower, Edward Berger is likely to turn heads for the length of time it takes one to realize they aren’t looking at the real thing.
