Play Dirty – Film Review

Shane Black’s Play Dirty promises the kind of hard-boiled, sardonic heist movie that once made him Hollywood’s sharpest screenwriter. Adapted from Donald E. Westlake’s Parker novels (written under the pseudonym Richard Stark), the film reunites Black with the familiar cocktail of quippy banter, bruised masculinity, and chaotic violence. Unfortunately, Play Dirty too often feels like a diluted echo of better crime films — both from the filmmaker’s own past and from the gritty pulp world that inspired it. Despite moments of slick entertainment and a standout performance from Rosa Salazar, the film’s uneven tone, erratic pacing, and hollow emotional underpinnings leave it feeling like a slickly produced imitation rather than a genuine revival.

The setup has all the makings of a classic Shane Black crime romp. Parker (Mark Wahlberg), a professional thief governed by his own ruthless moral code, gets double-crossed after a racetrack heist goes violently wrong. Left for dead, he crawls back into the criminal underworld to track down those who betrayed him, recruiting his old associate Grofield (LaKeith Stanfield) for help. From there, the film expands into a tangled web involving international mercenaries, political corruption, and a billion-dollar treasure hidden beneath layers of deception.

Black co-wrote the script with Anthony Bagarozzi, his frequent collaborator, and the two pack the film with snappy one-liners, overlapping betrayals, and elaborate setups. On paper, the plot sounds like classic pulp fiction — labyrinthine but driven by honor among thieves and double-crosses among crooks. Yet the execution feels strangely mechanical. The film moves from one exposition-heavy sequence to another with little sense of propulsion. Black’s usual gift for rhythm — the way he can make exposition dance through dialogue — feels muffled here, buried under murky editing and inconsistent tonal choices.

There’s an energy in Play Dirty’s first act, as the racetrack heist unfolds with ruthless efficiency, but it’s a fleeting one. What follows feels like a scattershot series of action vignettes — chases, shootouts, and interrogations — that never quite connect into a cohesive whole. The result is a movie that constantly feels like it’s on the verge of taking off, yet remains stuck in neutral.

Casting Mark Wahlberg as Parker seemed like an attempt to blend old-school toughness with contemporary grit. Wahlberg has the physique and the deadpan timing, but he lacks the cold precision that defines Westlake’s antihero. His Parker is less a calculating professional and more a gruff, perpetually scowling brawler who solves every problem with a gun or a punch. The film gives him flashes of dark humor — moments where you can see Black’s fingerprints — but Wahlberg never quite sells the character’s intellect or methodical nature.

The character of Parker has always been an embodiment of criminal discipline, a man with strict rules in a chaotic world. Here, he feels reduced to a generic action lead, stripped of the sharp moral ambiguity that makes him compelling in print. That choice might make the film more accessible to a wider audience, but it also drains it of personality.

LaKeith Stanfield fares somewhat better as Grofield, a small-time thief and reluctant partner whose dry wit and theatrical flair bring some much-needed color. Stanfield’s performance has charm and humor, even when the script gives him little to work with. His chemistry with Wahlberg is serviceable, though not especially electric; their banter feels more procedural than playful. Still, Stanfield injects a touch of eccentric humanity into a movie otherwise content to coast on gunfire and grimaces.

If there’s one bright spark in Play Dirty, it’s Rosa Salazar as Zen — a cunning mercenary whose allegiances and motivations shift with each scene. Salazar brings an intensity and unpredictability that cuts through the film’s fog of clichés. Her Zen is sharp, funny, and magnetic, commanding every frame she’s in. Unlike most of the characters, she feels alive — constantly scheming, constantly assessing the room. Salazar finds emotional shading even when the script reduces her to a femme fatale archetype, turning a potentially one-note role into the film’s most dynamic presence.

Her chemistry with Wahlberg provides some of Play Dirty’s only tension that isn’t driven by bullets. Their scenes together — flirty, hostile, and quietly wounded — hint at the kind of emotional nuance the rest of the movie lacks. If Black’s earlier films (The Nice Guys, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang) thrived on verbal duels that doubled as romantic or moral sparring matches, here it’s Salazar alone who keeps that spirit alive.

Visually, Play Dirty looks polished. Cinematographer Philippe Rousselot bathes the film in crisp, shadow-drenched lighting reminiscent of neo-noir thrillers. The gunfights are competently staged, and the urban environments feel tactile and grimy. Black’s direction remains sharp in isolated moments — a heist sequence staged on an automated garbage train is impressively choreographed — but the action rarely builds momentum. Scenes that should pulse with tension often feel rushed or cluttered by erratic editing.

Where the film really falters is its narrative clarity. The story juggles too many factions — the Outfit, corrupt politicians, mercenaries, and Parker’s crew — with little distinction between them. Motivations blur, stakes grow muddled, and even the film’s central heist loses emotional weight as subplots pile up. Black seems more interested in crafting clever dialogue and elaborate betrayals than in grounding them within a coherent structure.

The dialogue itself is a mixed bag. Some exchanges capture Black’s trademark wit, but too often the film indulges in flat exposition or uninspired quips. It’s as if the screenplay can’t decide whether it wants to be hardboiled or self-aware.

What made Westlake’s Parker novels so compelling was their moral precision — their fascination with professionalism in a dirty business. Every heist, every betrayal carried a sense of code and consequence. Play Dirty gestures toward that ethos but never truly commits to it. Parker talks about loyalty, about doing a job right, but his actions are reactive, impulsive, and emotionally unmoored. Without that moral compass, however brutal, the movie loses the essence of its antihero.

By the time the film reaches its third act, the betrayals have stacked so high that their impact dulls. The twists feel perfunctory rather than revelatory. Even the climactic sequence, meant to resolve both Parker’s vendetta and the film’s tangled heist plot, plays out with a sense of inevitability. The film ends not with catharsis but with fatigue.

The supporting cast — including Keegan-Michael Key, Chukwudi Iwuji, and Thomas Jane — are mostly wasted in underdeveloped roles. Key, in particular, feels miscast; his natural comedic instincts clash with the grim tone. Iwuji brings a hint of gravitas to his scenes but can’t elevate the thin writing.

Play Dirty had the potential to resurrect one of crime fiction’s most enduring antiheroes with the swagger and intelligence of a Shane Black thriller. Instead, it settles for surface pleasures — glossy cinematography, sporadic bursts of action, and a few flashes of wit — without ever finding a soul beneath the swagger.

Rosa Salazar’s commanding turn gives the movie its only real spark, suggesting the complex, morally fluid story that might have been. But Wahlberg’s one-note performance, a meandering plot, and Black’s uncertain direction ultimately turn Play Dirty into a curiously lifeless affair. It’s not unwatchable — it’s too slickly made for that — but it’s frustratingly hollow, like a counterfeit bill that looks convincing until you hold it up to the light.