If there is one thing to be said about The Gambler, it is this: its poster is about as indicative as can be. For those who have yet to see the film, gear up for plenty of close-ups of a sullen, recalcitrant Mark Wahlberg fuming silently at the camera, caught somewhere between wordless scream for help and smirk of feigned badassery. Whether or not you have the stomach for two hours of much of the same is a matter of personal preference, but The Gambler, while a necessarily corkscrew of repetitive dour scenarios, explores the nature of emptiness in life, it is far from empty itself.
The film, in short, is not an easy watch. Wahlberg's Jim Bennett – a moderately affluent and successful university English professor and novelist – such a startlingly persistent downward spiral (he gambles, loses, racks up debt, borrows money from skeazy loan sharks, alienates the few other human beings willing to indulge him with their time, rinse and repeat) that it would seem a cautionary tale about gambling addiction, were it not clear that his true addiction is to maudlin self-punishment rather than the thrill of beating the odds. Almost more unsettling than the black hole of negativity he conjures is his lack of precisely articulated motivation behind it – is this a mere case of 'poor little privileged rich boy' listlessness, or a deeper, existential lust for purpose in life (need I mention the film is a loose adaptation of the novel of the same title by Dostoyevsky)?
It's enough to leave many prospective viewers wondering: what is the point? Why spend two hours with a fairly unlikeable character doing unlikeable things for little to no discernible purpose? A fair question. The answer is to not simply consume the film as a hip urban crime parable, despite the distinctly Michael Mann-esq aesthetic of murky ochre city lights at night director Rupert Wyatt concocts. Bennett is not meant to play is hip or cool, despite his half-hearted pretenses at such, skulking through shady "gambling establishments", eloquently insulting mob bouncers, sunglasses in tow, or lying on a desk, postulating on the frivolity at any attempts at artistry without a genius level of natural talent during his English 101 lectures. The key to character and film alike is to catch the glimmers of doubt twinkling behind the armour of nihilism – this is not a man who truly cares about nothing, but desperately needs to believe he does. If James Caan's take on the character in the 1974 referent film of the same name was an exploration of unfounded libido, gambling with an almost carnal lust, Wahlberg's is a study of impotence, and the façade of 'I don't care about anything' that creeps up to hide it. 'Bad boy,' 'hipster,' 'tragic antihero,' selfish swipes at James Dean-era cool – call it what you will, the film cautions, but be aware of how devastating the consequences can be to those trapped in such worldviews, as well as those audacious enough to care about them, here represented by Jessica Lange's bitterly devoted mother, and Brie Larson's enigmatically curious star student (both strong dramatic support here).
Indeed, all the cast have tremendous fun spitting out William Monahan (of The Departed fame)'s acerbic script, especially the scene-stealing double-act of loan sharks, Michael Kenneth Williams and the infallibly charismatic John Goodman (now with added baldness and shirtlessness for your viewing pleasure!). Nonetheless, bypassed by the awards circuit as he was, the film is anchored by Wahlberg's deceptively nuanced and magnetic performance. Like Goodman and Williams, we never like Bennett, and really have no reason to keep supporting him, but we are consistently captivated by a bemused, almost perverse curiosity to see just how low he will drag himself. Wahlberg, to his credit, letting only fleeting trickles of a internal geyser of emotions past his mask of flatness, makes the ride a worthwhile one.
By the end, we finally get the sense that the whole ordeal, rather than addictive behaviour, was a bizarre social experiment in re-igniting lust for life – enough so that even the ambiguously upbeat ending rings strangely true in spite of its seeming artifice. The biggest gamble of all, as an audience member, is allowing yourself to see the film through, smirks and sunglasses and all. You just might not be sorry that you did.
-7/10
The film, in short, is not an easy watch. Wahlberg's Jim Bennett – a moderately affluent and successful university English professor and novelist – such a startlingly persistent downward spiral (he gambles, loses, racks up debt, borrows money from skeazy loan sharks, alienates the few other human beings willing to indulge him with their time, rinse and repeat) that it would seem a cautionary tale about gambling addiction, were it not clear that his true addiction is to maudlin self-punishment rather than the thrill of beating the odds. Almost more unsettling than the black hole of negativity he conjures is his lack of precisely articulated motivation behind it – is this a mere case of 'poor little privileged rich boy' listlessness, or a deeper, existential lust for purpose in life (need I mention the film is a loose adaptation of the novel of the same title by Dostoyevsky)?
It's enough to leave many prospective viewers wondering: what is the point? Why spend two hours with a fairly unlikeable character doing unlikeable things for little to no discernible purpose? A fair question. The answer is to not simply consume the film as a hip urban crime parable, despite the distinctly Michael Mann-esq aesthetic of murky ochre city lights at night director Rupert Wyatt concocts. Bennett is not meant to play is hip or cool, despite his half-hearted pretenses at such, skulking through shady "gambling establishments", eloquently insulting mob bouncers, sunglasses in tow, or lying on a desk, postulating on the frivolity at any attempts at artistry without a genius level of natural talent during his English 101 lectures. The key to character and film alike is to catch the glimmers of doubt twinkling behind the armour of nihilism – this is not a man who truly cares about nothing, but desperately needs to believe he does. If James Caan's take on the character in the 1974 referent film of the same name was an exploration of unfounded libido, gambling with an almost carnal lust, Wahlberg's is a study of impotence, and the façade of 'I don't care about anything' that creeps up to hide it. 'Bad boy,' 'hipster,' 'tragic antihero,' selfish swipes at James Dean-era cool – call it what you will, the film cautions, but be aware of how devastating the consequences can be to those trapped in such worldviews, as well as those audacious enough to care about them, here represented by Jessica Lange's bitterly devoted mother, and Brie Larson's enigmatically curious star student (both strong dramatic support here).
Indeed, all the cast have tremendous fun spitting out William Monahan (of The Departed fame)'s acerbic script, especially the scene-stealing double-act of loan sharks, Michael Kenneth Williams and the infallibly charismatic John Goodman (now with added baldness and shirtlessness for your viewing pleasure!). Nonetheless, bypassed by the awards circuit as he was, the film is anchored by Wahlberg's deceptively nuanced and magnetic performance. Like Goodman and Williams, we never like Bennett, and really have no reason to keep supporting him, but we are consistently captivated by a bemused, almost perverse curiosity to see just how low he will drag himself. Wahlberg, to his credit, letting only fleeting trickles of a internal geyser of emotions past his mask of flatness, makes the ride a worthwhile one.
By the end, we finally get the sense that the whole ordeal, rather than addictive behaviour, was a bizarre social experiment in re-igniting lust for life – enough so that even the ambiguously upbeat ending rings strangely true in spite of its seeming artifice. The biggest gamble of all, as an audience member, is allowing yourself to see the film through, smirks and sunglasses and all. You just might not be sorry that you did.
-7/10