What on earth happened to Will Smith? He could until recently trade on a certain amount of charm: I have a soft spot for his sentimental drama The Pursuit of Happyness (2006) and he did a good job in the almost impossible role of Muhammad Ali for Michael Mann in 2001. But Smith is just insufferable in this fantastically boring caper about high-class con-trick artists: supercilious and smug, gliding through a glossily mediocre film on cruise control. It is written and directed by John Requa and Glenn Ficarra (who made Crazy, Stupid, Love and I Love You Phillip Morris), but without the flair or fun of those pictures. Smith is super-cool con artist Nicky, and Margot Robbie is Jess, the hot would-be grifter that he mentors and falls in love with. Or … is he just using her? Is she using him? With acting this terrible it’s difficult to tell. Or care. There’s none of the charm of Soderbergh’s Ocean’s Eleven or the steel of Mamet’s House of Games. There is, however, some very tiresome stuff on subliminal suggestion that I remember being done more interestingly by Derren Brown. It passes in a blur of dullness.
