Such a promising pedigree this film has: director Michael Hoffman, who helmed the lively “Soapdish” back in 1991; a cast that includes Oscar winner Colin Firth; and a script by the Coen brothers, no less.
But when “Gambit” came out in the UK in 2012, critics rolled their eyes. This week it slinks into New York with a token theatrical release concurrent with its video-on-demand debut. Aha, a zero-star turkey ripe for the roasting.
No such luck there, either. “Gambit” is a trans-Atlantic delivery of “meh.”
It’s a remake of a 1966 caper comedy with Michael Caine and Shirley MacLaine. Firth adopts Caine’s trademark specs as art expert Harry Deane, who plots to sell a phony Monet to his nasty billionaire boss (Alan Rickman). Deane enlists Cameron Diaz, as a rootin’ tootin’ Texas gal named P.J. Puznowski. (“You can call me Jammy!” she says brightly, and there you have the verbal wit of “Gambit.”)
The script conspires to make the cast dead wrong for each part. Dashing Colin Firth is a punching-bag klutz. World-class sophisticate Rickman is a vulgarian. Diaz, who’s California to her pedicure, apparently decided nothing says Texas like a lunatic grin and plenty of arm-flapping. Firth is supposed to find her irresistible; instead he looks at Diaz like she’s a puppy heading for his best rug.
Only the great Tom Courtenay is a perfect fit as the expert forger; a shot of him painting another fake offers one of the only big laughs. And Firth gets some farcical giggles when he spends a half-hour walking around London’s Savoy hotel wearing a deadpan expression and no pants.
The pace is the real killer. Hoffman signals “retro romp” in good ways like the “Pink Panther”-ish credits, and in bad ways, like a mess of national stereotypes. But he never sustains any firecracker pop. When a character sings a Frank Sinatra standard toward the end, it’s like someone’s admitting that “Gambit” has no rhythm.