May... borrowed the scarily intense and spontaneous performance style of Cassavetes’s films to expose the cruelty of their male bravado—the ugliness of what his men do to women and what his women take from men.

It is a vivid, almost sensually rancid slice of 1970s cinema, a movie in which you can almost taste the sweat in the air.

What emerges is a profound, unsentimental portrait of male friendship-and of its ultimate impossibility.

A loose, rangy drama with a rambling set of conflicts, it is electrified by the same nervous energy and volatile personalities of Cassavetes’ best work.