Ballad of a Small Player Review: Colin Farrell Is Down Bad in Five-Star Macau-Set Purgatory

Ballad of a Small Player (2025)
Ballad of a Small Player (2025)

Edward Berger trades battlefield thunder and papal intrigue for the neon haze of Macau in Ballad of a Small Player, and the downsizing mostly helps. Where All Quiet on the Western Front and Conclave felt airless in their importance, this Netflix noir drifts on smaller, grubbier currents. Colin Farrell plays the magnificently named Lord Doyle, a con man hiding in five-star purgatory, burning through stolen money while chasing baccarat streaks that never come. He wears “lucky” gloves, talks to himself like a man trying to will fortune into existence, and keeps sinking. Farrell leans into the hangdog glamour of a loser who still orders champagne. It is one of his better sad-cad turns.

Berger shoots Macau as a fever dream of lacquered lobbies, empty gaming rooms, and back-alley temples. The camera loves reflections and midnight reds; every corridor seems to stretch into a mirage. That polish is seductive, even when the movie’s pulse drops. The first act, in particular, floats from suite to table to bathtub with a languor that mistakes mood for momentum. Berger’s control is impeccable, but you can still feel the framing squeezing the mess out of scenes that need a little sleaze.

Story is simple by design. Lord Doyle holes up in a penthouse he can barely afford, tries to manufacture luck, and finds trouble instead. A private investigator, Cynthia Blithe (Tilda Swinton), stalks him with icy relish, a wraith in crisp linen who wants restitution for the woman he fleeced. Fala Chen drifts through like a good omen Doyle does not deserve, tender in a movie that rarely is. The dynamic works best when Farrell and Swinton circle each other; their cat-and-mouse has bite, even if the script keeps the claws sheathed.

Adapted from Lawrence Osborne, Ballad of a Small Player wants to be a gambler’s ghost story, a tale of a man who finally meets the reckoning he has been dodging. At times it gets there. The neon melancholy fits Farrell, and Berger’s image making can be lushly transportive. The problem is a lack of real tension. For long stretches the film is content to watch Doyle drift, and the consequences feel theoretical until the last third snaps awake. Compared to Berger’s prestige mounts, the intimacy is refreshing. Compared to sharper casino tragedies, the stakes feel oddly soft.

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Even so, there is pleasure in the vibe. The baccarat rituals, the dead-quiet hallways, the way a city of chance turns Doyle into a ghost long before his luck runs out. Ballad of a Small Player is overstyled and underfanged, but Farrell’s weary magnetism and Berger’s neon trance keep you watching. As a pivot from grand statements to a small, toxic serenade, it is a modest success.

Score: 6/10

Ballad of a Small Player (2025)

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