Two for the Money
"Two for the Money" is cooked from a tired "Wall Street" recipe. Take a hick from the sticks, drag him to the big city, introduce him to a guru, stir in sex, money, cigars, and two cups of testosterone, see the mixture rise, then hear it crash. Add sighs and eye-rolls, to taste.
It's as if a version of Oliver Stone's movie has been frozen in some fraternity house beer cooler since 1987 and thawed for the age of plasma screen TVs.
Matthew McConaughey stars as Brandon Lang, a college football stud, sidelined with a bum knee but redeemed by his gift for sports wagering, which borders on the clairvoyant. He's working at a 900-number recording service for gamblers, when he gets a call from his Flo Ziegfeld, a loud, barking Noo-Yawker named Walter Abrams whom Al Pacino plays with his copyrighted hoo-ah!
He hires Brandon to work at Sports Advisors, his gambling agency, and changes the kid's name to the pornier "John Anthony." Brandon is handed a furnished bachelor's lair that looks "Men's Health"-approved (the weight room is bigger than the kitchen) and acquires the sense of grooming one gets after skimming an issue of GQ and too many episodes of "The Apprentice."
Brandon's talent to foresee the winners and point spreads of football games gets him moved right into the company's front office, where, as John Anthony, he makes Walter lots of money -- until, of course, he doesn't, and the movie predictably charts Brandon's long fall from grace. It's nothing spectacular. The young man just loses his mojo.
Screenwriter Dan Gilroy doesn't have any wisdom to impart about gambling other than that losing really hurts. Apparently, the movie is based on a true story, and Gilroy and director DJ Caruso, a TV veteran, give us a sense of the agonies and ecstasies of the sports gambling business. But even at 122 minutes, the movie doesn't have the scope or insight to capture a subculture. We do, however, get numerous shots of McConaughey working out.
The film does aim for psychological complexity. All Brandon wanted as a boy was to please his dead father. Now he wants to please Walter, who, wouldn't you know it, has a heart condition, one that his tough wife, Toni (Rene Russo), wishes he would deal with. He'd rather light another cigarette, comment on how hot Brandon is, and hire him a hooker.
Toni barely notices or wonders if Walter is in love with his underling. Yet she worries: Since she's a recovering junkie and Walter's a rehabbed gambling addict, their posh carriage could turn back into a skid-row pumpkin at any second. Rene Russo on crack. Now there's a movie! Instead, we're led to believe that there is a connection between Toni and Brandon that would make Walter jealous. But there's no sexual charge between anybody.
As you might expect, Pacino coughs up an occasional surprise. There's an amusing sequence in which he shouts on the streets that he's mad as hell. He's still histrionic (if he almost keels over once, he must do it 400 times), but he's not an embarrassment, either. Walter, though, is a confused character -- a father, a clown, a villain, and a window through which Brandon can see what's truly important.
Aside from Pacino's snappy contribution, the acting isn't very impressive -- even Armand Assante and Jeremy Piven are misused in the roles of a heavy and a heel, respectively. Russo, who's married to Gilroy, looks terrific, but she speeds through all her lines and has a tedious habit of repeating characters' names as though it's the only way she can keep track of who's who.
McConaughey makes some strides toward seriousness here. He is, after all, the latest graduate from the Al Pacino Acting School -- that's AlPacAS to you. Previous certificate holders include Johnny Depp, John Cusack, Keanu Reeves, and Jamie Foxx, men who've played Pacino's proteges. But McConaughey always seems too hazy and smug to risk passion. The principal frustration persists: He's still a dream of Paul Newman that shows no signs of coming true.
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