Four stars. Rated R, for profanity, drug use and brief violence
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.5.18
Truth isn’t merely stranger than
fiction; sometimes it’s flat-out astonishing.
Molly’s Game is the mesmerizing study of
Molly Bloom, who — in a parallel universe — might have been the gold
medal-winning Olympics skier that she was trained to become, from an early age.
Having become master of her own high-stakes poker domain, Molly (Jessica Chastain) strides confidently through the room, fully aware of the impact she has on her all-male clientele. |
Or, maybe, she’d have blossomed
into the high-profile lawyer being nurtured by her academic talents.
In our world, derailed by a freak
accident and occasionally hampered by a rebellious spirit, she applied her
preternatural intelligence to become — of all things — the “Poker Princess”
known in upper-echelon circles for running weekly, invitation-only games for
some of the wealthiest high-rollers in Los Angeles and New York.
Her rise and fall — and rise and
fall, and rise and fall — is detailed with supernova intensity by famed
scripter Aaron Sorkin, also making a splashy directorial debut in this
adaptation of Bloom’s page-turning 2014 memoir, Molly’s Game: From Hollywood’s Elite to Wall Street’s Billionaire Boys
Club, My High-Stakes Adventure in the World of Underground Poker.
And yes, the film is as
breathtaking as that title.
Perhaps too breathtaking.
As Sorkin’s longtime fans are
well aware, his rat-a-tat dialog sizzles with the manic incandescence of
classic Hollywood screwball comedies, albeit on a far higher level of dramatic
gravitas: often laden with information dumps that demand not only one’s full
attention, but (couldn’t hurt) a college graduate’s vocabulary.
There’s a reason Sorkin’s
best-scripted episodes of TV’s gone but still much-beloved West Wing clocked in at a fast-paced 45 minutes; most viewers
probably couldn’t have endured more. The same narrative ferocity can be found
in any isolated 15 to 20 minutes of Molly’s
Game, particularly as anchored by Jessica Chastain’s hypnotically alluring
starring role, and Idris Elba’s equally powerful supporting performance.
Taken as a whole, though, this 140-minute
film is exhausting. Even too many chocolate milkshakes can overwhelm the most
enthusiastic palate, and — as director — Sorkin has over-indulged his writing
sensibilities. (Tellingly, this fate that did not befall his Academy Award-winning script for 2010’s The Social Network, when his efforts
were carefully modulated by director David Fincher.)
Molly narrates her own unlikely
saga, Chastain giving these events the stream-of-consciousness passion of a
seasoned sportscaster. As is his frequent custom, Sorkin eschews a conventional
linear approach for a three-pronged attack divided mostly between the “present”
— April 2013 through May 2014 — and the whirlwind events that began a decade
earlier. Occasional deeper flashbacks illuminate the childhood training
sessions under her disciplinarian father, Larry (Kevin Costner), by profession
a clinical psychologist and Colorado State University professor.
Even before all this, though,
Sorkin opens with a heart-stopping prologue — also narrated, with clipped
irony, by Chastain — that rivals Slovenian ski jumper Vinko Bogataj’s 1970
tumble forever immortalized, as the “agony of defeat” moment that opened so
many seasons of ABC’s Wide World of
Sports.
No denying: It’s a hell of an
entry point, and we’re firmly hooked from that point forward.
Unable to process the remnants of
a rigorous routine suddenly cut short by this calamity, Molly retreats to Los
Angeles, wanting nothing more than to be “in the sun” as a normal person. Since
women with her, ah, physical attributes have an advantage when seeking quick
employment, Molly funds this open-ended vacation as a part-time cocktail
waitress. She quickly comes to the attention of Dean Keith (Jeremy Strong), the
mildly sleazy owner of the Cobra Lounge, who hires her as a personal assistant.
Never has a task been more
thankless, Strong ladling his performance with skin-crawling smarm. To dub Dean
an arrogant jackass is a disservice to jackasses.
But he runs a regular high-stakes
poker game in his club’s grotty basement, and destiny strikes when he makes
Molly the seductively smiling “handler” who invites and greets the high-profile
names who populate the table. Most women in such a role would perform their
eye-candy function and then lounge, bored, in a corner. Not Molly: Armed with
her ubiquitous laptop, she watches, studies, researches and educates herself in
every aspect of what’s going down.
Which is to say, the players, the
psychology and the poker. In that order.
We learn simultaneously, and — no
question — the experience is exhilarating.
Molly quickly understands that
the weekly game revolves around a famed young movie star known merely as
“Player X” (Michael Cera, oozing reptilian charm), who is the “magnet” for the
“fish”: players who aren’t very good, but have plenty of money to gamble away.
When Dean’s personal failings accelerate the collapse of his shaky financial
empire, Molly has no trouble — with Player X’s cheerful cooperation — taking
over as game impresario.
She brings a level of class,
sophistication, charm — and rigorous honesty — that Dean never could have
delivered; the caliber of clientele ramps up accordingly. Participants who
catch our eye — and Sorkin’s narrative fancy — include Harlan Eustice (Bill
Camp), a solid player with the potential for poker greatness; and the haplessly
inept “Bad Brad” (Brian d’Arcy James), who loses all ... the ... time, but
insists that it’s OK, because he simply likes the camaraderie.
Things proceed. Until they don’t.
At which point, Molly re-invents herself again.
Armchair psychologists will read
deeply rooted motivation into Molly’s actions; Sorkin certainly encourages such
speculation. Whatever the truth — and the actual Molly Bloom probably doesn’t
know herself — it’s safe to assume, given the manner in which Chastain’s Molly
salaciously teases and caters to her clients’ whims, that she wants to be in
control.
She defiantly refuses to be
screwed by any man, in either the metaphoric or biological sense.
Getting to the heart of Molly
Bloom is what motivates Charlie Jaffey (Elba) to become her defense attorney,
after she’s arrested by the FBI — at an absurd level of overkill — in the
spring of 2013. Jaffey is captivated despite himself: wholly unwilling, at
first, to accept her as a client ... and yet unable to turn away.
Most of the exchanges between
Jaffey and Molly take place in his office, often late at night, as he pokes,
prods and probes, trying to comprehend her behavior, her motivations, and —
most particularly — her unyielding refusal to identify the “fish” who she
nurtured and (surprise!) in many cases genuinely cared for. Sorkin makes her
the rarest of creatures: a honorable spirit with true integrity, in rapaciously
dishonorable surroundings.
Is she really that naïve, or
really that calculating? Chastain plays it close to the endowments forever
threatening to spill out of costume designer Susan Lyall’s cleavage-enhancing
outfits.
Whatever the answer, watching
Chastain and Elba tear at each other, during these claustrophobic sequences, is
akin to experiencing the live-stage intensity of charismatic actors in a
99-seat theater. And yet that stage-y quality often seems removed from, rather
than a supporting element of, the linear progress of Molly’s jaw-dropping
career.
As her life inevitably careens
out of control, we resent these increasingly jarring Chastain/Elba intrusions.
A certain level of said-bookism
creeps in, with Jaffey the dogged psychologist relentlessly trying to “solve”
Molly. Which is ironic, because Costner — effectively understated —
accomplishes far more, in far less time, during a short but telling third act
scene between Molly and her father.
The tech credits are polished and
luxuriously slick. No matter what the surroundings concocted by production
designer David Wasco, the central poker table always is framed with seductive
intensity by cinematographer Charlotte Bruus Christensen; we can’t help being
enthralled. Daniel Pemberton’s orchestral underscore is subtle, almost
subliminal: more finely tuned shading than thematic.
Viewers are apt to indulge in the
vicarious exercise of trying to identify the real-world individuals represented
by Cera and the many other supporting performers, but Sorkin insists — in the
press notes — that these characters are composites. That said, it’s pretty well
established that Molly’s high rollers included Tobey Maguire, Ben Affleck,
Leonardo DiCaprio, businessman/investor Alec Gores, banker/real estate investor
Andy Beal and baseball great Alex Rodriguez, among many others.
Sorkin certainly succeeds in
making Molly Bloom a fascinating (anti?) hero, and I’ve no doubt that sales of
her book will spike. Captivating as this film so frequently is, though, by
journey’s end I felt akin to Molly’s younger self (Piper Howell), after a
particularly grueling session at the hands of her push-push-push father:
Worn out ... and perhaps a bit
vexed.
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