sometimes brilliantly tense, but it fails to achieve what probably can't be done in the first place: to wed human pathos to the contradictions of a system. How do we make sense of the world under capitalism? The caprice, the avarice, the cruelty—this mundane trough of pain we're all meant to feed at. I'm not sure that we can. At best we can interpret and then dictate what it feels like to live inside it. The financial crisis of '08,…
If you simply recited the events of Molly Bloom's life in chronological order, in a dead monotone, you would be telling a better story than Sorkin is here. Nothing happens simply. His oily fingerprints track across every last frame. If the shambolic spirit of a Malcolm Gladwell book could rise up, move about, use language, and then a camera, it would make a film like this: beggared for humanity, glutted with sentiment, and almost entirely wrong. I literally don't understand how you make a movie about high stakes poker this dull.