BALLAD OF A SMALL PLAYER foregrounds a flashy, wide-eyed performance from Colin Farrell and derives some cinematic beauty from the seedy gaudiness of Macau. Edward Berger’s latest film stakes a lot on these two standout elements, but they turn out to be a flimsy bluff rather than a sure bet.
We are introduced to Farrell as Lord Doyle, who has run up an extremely large bill at his hotel in Macau. His room and the colourful mess and chaos of his hedonistic stay are laid out in a wide shot, before he attempts to sneak out for the day. The bill has come due, the management spots him, and they give Doyle four days to pay or they will turf him out. It’s also apparent that this is not his only debt around the city. What follows is the gambling addict spouting gambler’s fallacies around with abandon, trying to play his way out of financial trouble, and making an emotional connection with Dao Ming (Fala Chen), an employee of one of the casinos at which he plays baccarat.
From the beginning, BALLAD OF A SMALL PLAYER is a visually arresting film. The bright lights and neon hues of Macau lend themselves to dramatic, cinematic imagery without being the same overplayed icons of the other pre-eminent gambling hellscape, Las Vegas. Most of the story takes place in wet weather, with different light sources bouncing off it at all angles. Interior scenes often feature Farrell drenched in rain or sweat, achieving the same effect. Cinematographer James Friend is clearly having an absolute ball with this film.
“BALLAD OF A SMALL PLAYER is a visually arresting film. The bright lights and neon hues of Macau lend themselves to dramatic, cinematic imagery [and] cinematographer James Friend is clearly having an absolute ball with this film.”
So, too, is Farrell. His upper-class English affectations and colourful suits belie a storied past we learn more about (although perhaps not enough) as the film progresses. The performance has an arch tone but is always engaging. In particular, the dexterity with which he can change his mode of expression adds entertaining variety to the rhythm of the performance in the somewhat repetitive first two acts.
That repetition is perhaps necessary, showcasing Doyle’s addiction-induced madness in trying the same thing again and again, yet expecting differing results. However, other aspects of Berger’s film don’t fully utilise the performances or the stronger elements of the aesthetics. Volker Bertelmann’s musical work feels overblown here in a way it didn’t for his previous collaborations with Berger. When bombastic orchestral music swells and Berger twists his camera through wildly disorienting angles, only for Doyle to merely descend an escalator in the opening minutes, it’s hard not to think the film shows its hand and goes all-in too early.
“When bombastic orchestral music swells and Berger twists his camera through wildly disorienting angles, only for Doyle to merely descend an escalator in the opening minutes, it’s hard not to think the film shows its hand and goes all-in too early.”
As the narrative develops, it’s unclear whether that score and the visuals are a bluff concealing a thin story and flimsy thematic foundation or simply overpowering the less bombastic aspects. One strand addressing Doyle’s search for atonement is clumsily expressed via his connection with Dao Ming and the Festival of the Hungry Ghosts. Doyle’s voracious appetite for gambling is equated with this spiritual idea of being driven by desire and acquisitiveness, and there is also a great deal of suicidal ideation attached to his quest to break free from it. Doyle frequently imagines throwing himself to his death and connects with Dao Ming when a man she extended credit to, who could not repay, throws himself off a building. However, this is all developed chiefly via some clunky expositional dialogue with Dao Ming and lacks much impact as a result.
The film’s only other compelling idea arrives via Tilda Swinton’s character, Cynthia, an employee of a private investigation firm pursuing Doyle, and Adrian (Alex Jennings), an upper-class English hedonist. There are allusions to the duplicity of a British society that promises prosperity but punishes those who would seek it at the expense of those holding the cards. Wild criminal paths and drearier, approved ones are rewarded with the same poor, subservient outcomes. The house, so to speak, never loses. Once again, though, it is down to some poorly integrated, if charismatically delivered dialogue to bring this idea forward.
BALLAD OF A SMALL PLAYER rarely fails to be entertaining, with the visuals and performances taking the film a long way. However, they are fleeting thrills in the service of an unmemorable story. Berger’s film looks like a high roller, but it’s playing with buttons and matchsticks.