Ballad of a Small Player Is Off-Key
After making two pointed, political films with All Quiet on the Western Front and 2024’s Conclave, Edward Berger has turned to what could be considered a lark with Ballad of a Small Player. It’s far less serious than either of those films, and it’s unclear if Ballad has anything to actually say beyond being a showcase for flashy acting and flashier visuals. There’s nothing wrong with a lark, in theory, but there are few things right with Berger’s latest.
The subject of Berger’s Ballad is Lord Doyle (Colin Farrell), a gambling addict who bounces between Macau’s casinos, tossing away chips on baccarat tables until he’s no longer allowed to order a drink. His luck has clearly run out—if it ever existed—but he finds some semblance of generosity in Dao Ming (Fala Chen), a mysterious lender who may only ensnare him further in debt. And then there’s Tilda Swinton’s Cynthia, an investigator hired to reclaim a fortune that Doyle supposedly stole back in the UK. Throughout the city the Festival of Hungry Ghosts kicks off, giving a rather on-the-nose symbol for Doyle’s insatiable greed.
Berger, teaming up with cinematographer James Friend and editor Nick Emerson, goes haywire with the visuals. Nearly every shot is flooded with electricity and bursting colors, making Ballad of a Small Player optically stunning when everything else ceases to be interesting. To stay on the positive side, Farrell is expressive and believable as Doyle, even when Doyle isn’t believable as a character. Farrell continues to do great work, though his 2025 films haven’t lived up to his greatness.
This Ballad is ultimately a tone-deaf affair. There’s a fundamental hole, or perhaps lack of commitment, in the film that keeps the few pieces that do work from cohering. In the first twenty minutes, Farrell’s and Swinton’s performances hint that they’re leaning into the buffoonery, as though this is to be a spoof. But the score and the eventual direction of the film seem insistent that this is a weighty character study of a broken addict. It’s as though the idea of this movie transformed along the way, and you can feel Berger pick up one idea before setting it down for another. To wit: Doyle initially provides a narration that is bluntly ironic. In Macau, he “be anyone he wants to be,” but that’s clearly not true as everyone corners him to recoup their money. In David Fincher’s The Killer, this approach worked because the film was committed to the voice-over and delighted in undercutting Fassbender’s assassin at every turn. At some point along the way in Ballad, though, the narration simply disappears, forgotten.
As it meanders away from comedy (and even toys with being a ghost story), the script becomes arch and obvious. Cynthia tells Doyle that he’s beyond hope of redemption. In a separate moment, Doyle confesses that “I’ve never admitted that before.” Okay. No one would mistake Conclave for a subtle film, but its sincerity and intelligence gave it substance. Here you will find neither quality. Like Doyle, Ballad only gives a veneer of something more mysterious or dignified. And unfortunately, neither the film or its protagonist is very convincing. That veneer even applies to the Macau setting, which Berger never shows interest in beyond framing his vivid imagery. The characters use this city for their whims; it’s hard not to feel as though Berger is doing much the same.
Because the metaphor was too subtle, there are multiple scenes where Doyle gorges on food. He doesn’t know how to respond to success. Perhaps the same is true for Berger after drawing the attention and acclaim of All Quiet and Conclave. He’s not sure where to go from here, aside from indulging every idea and every colorful image.
