Gambit – review

I have had paper cuts on the soft flesh between the thumb and forefinger less painful and more rewarding than this: an agonisingly pointless remake of the 1960s heist caper that starred Michael Caine and Shirley Maclaine. Michael Hoffman, the formidable film-maker responsible for The Last Station, directs. And Joel and Ethan Coen have written the script, to which the only rational response is to shout the single word: "Why?" Their interest in remaking the Ealing classic The Ladykillers in 2004 was a bit baffling but the result did at least have some kind of distinctive writerly flavour. This, however, just looks like the Coens have taken a holiday from trying their hardest and doing their best. Colin Firth plays Harry Deane, an "art curator" who supervises the fabulous collection belonging to a haughty and horrible businessman called Lionel Shahbandar (a mugging, grimacing Alan Rickman). Sick of being bullied by his boss, Harry decides to sting Shahbandar by getting his old buddy and talented pasticheur Wingate (Tom Courtenay) to fake a "lost" Monet believed to be somewhere in the US, stage a phoney discovery and then persuade Shahbandar to buy it. For this, he needs the help of a feisty blond Texas gal, played on Westworld-autopilot by Cameron Diaz. Firth reprises his lovably stuffy-uptight routine, although surely he could have told the Coens that no English person uses the word "math". Firth also makes some attempts at big Clouseauesque physical comedy, which are game enough but don't come off. The plotting is a damp squib, with laugh-free scenes and setpieces that don't go anywhere, although I have to acknowledge a good line about the Connaught Hotel and a gag about a room number at the Savoy. An awful lot of talent has been put to waste here.