It feels more like a series of bits rather than a coherent narrative, and director Paul McGuigan paces it this way; you never feel as if the entire movie has coalesced, though many of the individual parts are a lot of fun.
It's the worst kind of con: It tells us it's a con, so we don't even have the consolation of being led down the garden path. The rug of reality is jerked out from under us in the opening scenes, and before long the floor is being dismantled.
For all its game invention, is less Pulp Fiction than an Elmore Leonard knockoff crossed with Deathtrap: a thriller that holds less interest -- and less water -- the more it reveals about what's actually going on.
I keep seeing films in which A-grade actors fill not just the top slots but some of the lesser roles, too, only to find themselves squashed by a script, or by a weight of contrivance, that would be lucky to bring home a C-plus.
This mistaken-identity thriller delights in narrative complication and Tarantino-esque self-awareness; it's when the labyrinthine plot starts to make sense, ironically, that the pervasive shallowness becomes a liability.