Review: The Gambler
Please note: This article is published as an archive copy from Philadelphia City Paper. My City Paper is not affiliated with Philadelphia City Paper. Philadelphia City Paper was an alternative weekly newspaper in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The last edition was published on October 8, 2015.
It's one big barroom bullshit session that refuses to end when the lights come on.
City Paper grade: C-
At this point in his career, Mark Wahlberg has settled nicely into his role as Hollywood's favorite Plan B, a quotidian leading man with above-average muscle definition, OK jokes and a good grasp on eye contact. Who knows how The Gambler would have fared without him (DiCaprio was attached early), but with Wahlberg at the wheel, it's one big barroom bullshit session that refuses to end when the lights come on. Much of that can be pinned on screenwriter William Monahan (The Departed), who takes James Toback's 1974 conceit and sexes it up with a triple scoop of florid Intro-to-Philosophy prattle. But it's Wahlberg's strained performance, so eager to be acknowledged, that really strips the screw.
The remake's geographic move, from New York to L.A., eases us into meeting lit professor Jim Bennett, who shouts cynical lectures at blasé students by day and accrues six-figure debt at underworld card tables come sundown. A sneering child of privilege with a shitty novel and a shittier attitude, Bennett isn't even close to likeable, and though you don't need to be a mensch to be compelling, he's barely fun to hate. This weighs on every one of Bennett's relations, from his old-money mother (Jessica Lange) and sinister creditors (John Goodman, Michael K. Williams) to the preternatural student (Brie Larson) drawn to him for no discernible reason. Both Monahan and director Rupert Wyatt seem to think they have something profound on their hands, which doesn't help.
