Conclave director Edward Berger is a long way from the hallowed halls of the Vatican in his new film, a surreal neon noir following a down-and-out gambler through the casinos of Macau.
Ballad of a Small Player tells the story of Lord Doyle, a dapper aristocrat who seems to have misplaced his silver spoon. When we meet him, the walls are already closing in: the hotel is demanding he pays his astronomical bill, his lines of credit have been cut and he can’t even use the in-house limo anymore.
Doyle is an addict in the broadest sense, a man with a hole at the centre of his being that he’s forever trying to fill. He sucks on bottles of stolen champagne, devours obscene amounts of food and hustles for money to fund the one big bet that just might change his fortunes.
A metaphysical streak runs throughout Berger’s film. Doyle describes himself as a “gweilo”, a foreign ghost, striding invisibly among the locals despite his penchant for natty suits in shades of red and green. The film takes place in the run up to the Hungry Ghost Festival, during which ritualistic food offerings are prepared for the dead, and Doyle himself is likened to a hungry ghost, his insatiable appetite for gambling leaving him perpetually unsated.
There comes a point, after Doyle has taken refuge with a casino hostess grieving the suicide of a client to whom she lent money, when the reality of things starts to break down altogether. Scenes no longer unfold in a logical order, instead relying upon dream logic.
It’s a very sensory movie, not only in the lush, saturated shots that Berger and his cinematographer James Friend return to time and again but also the sound design. Ballad of a Small Player is filled with noise: cutlery scraping across crockery, playing cards straining against leather gloves, clothes sliding across fabric seats and the low creak of wooden houseboats. This whole world feels like it’s coming painfully apart at the seams.
Colin Farrell is magnetic at the heart of it all, putting in a performance that feels restrained despite its frequent absurdity, keeping you on side despite his unforgivable sins. It’s the most challenging and opaque of Berger’s films to date but it’s also the most beautiful.