Directed by Edward Berger | Written by Rowan Joffe, based on the book by Lawrence Osborne | 101 min |▲1/2 | On Netflix
An earlier version of this review appeared on FITI during coverage of the Toronto International Film Festival 2025
In living memory has there been a film where the cinematography and production design was so eye-poppingly impressive but the story so hollow?
The Ballad of a Small Player has a steep hill to climb, a fable of a gambling addict with added shades of magic realism, but the full effort of two of the silver screen’s most charismatic players — Colin Farrell and Tilda Swinton — is wasted on a trite and forgettable script. A surprise, given it’s from Edward Berger of Conclave and All Quiet On The Western Front fame — he’s a capable filmmaker, which shows in the lavish production design and love of neon glaze.
Farrell plays a sweaty, slippery Irish fellow putting on airs as posh Englishman Lord Doyle — he’s a gambler on a bad luck streak (we so rarely meet super-successful gamblers in movies) living in a hotel in Macao, and he can’t pay his bills. A local creditor and hostess, Dao Ming (Fala Chen) has a soft spot for him, while an English detective, Blithe (Tilda Swinton in anti-glam, full-on Michael Caine accent mode) tracks him down to recoup money he stole before he left the UK.
As with many addiction narratives, the abyss can be seen deep in Doyle’s eyes, and when our painfully flawed protagonist will hit rock bottom is the question swirling through the film’s first act as he hemorrhages money at the baccarat tables. The picture also fancies itself a neo noir, with the characters straining to locate humanity within archetypes, and that would be fine if there was any sense of mystery or genuine stakes. Here’s a movie where we never really care about anyone, especially not the lead. If anything we have more pity for the supporting cast that they have to exist in his world — we all serve as witnesses for Doyle, as Farrell’s gnashing and Swinton’s idiosyncrasy get a workout.
All this while DP James Friend swishes his camera up, down and around Macao’s nighttime neon towers and kaleidoscope casinos, making every corner of the city — even the grungier tenements — into gleaming, colour-saturated palaces. The effect is hypnotizing, almost serving to distract from the too ordinary story in its centre. Almost.
