It's hard to forget the authorial voice in this film. You can almost
hear the typewriter (or should that be word processor) in the
background, spooling out its neat pages of carefully constructed
dialogue. The characters never seem to escape from the tyranny of
screenplay and take on a life of their own.

Having said that, there are moments of brilliance: certain lines that
burst out explosively with incandescent malevolence. And I have to
applaud a Hollywood film that avoids the usual anodyne
characterisations in favour of such an uncompromisingly desolate
picture of the modern relationship (even though Neal LaBute has
covered the same ground far more successfully).

An interesting failure.