Cassavetes’ harsh skewering of middle-age, middle-class male anxiety plays like a cover song that hits the right notes, but never sounds quite right. Perhaps it’s the color cinematography, which is slick but made to look cheap with grainy close-ups and shaky shallow focus; perhaps the scripted-but-intended-to-feel-improvised plotting is a little too meandering; or perhaps it’s a theme that Cassavetes had already successful exhausted, which makes the film feel like it’s wallowing in self-importance rather than chipping away at recognizable truths. But, for whatever reason, it just doesn’t quite work. (DVD)