This is, to say the least, a misjudged affair — a tale of two couples set in early tech-boom San Francisco that isn’t the satire of greed or sexy examination of animalistic desire it imagines itself to be, and whose characters’ frequently sozzled states are no more confused than the narrative itself. The overall effect is of being in the unpleasantly insistent confidences of someone who, erroneously, fancies himself a tremendously slick yarn-spinner.
And don’t get me started on Handler’s not infrequently nonsensical wordplay, which is at once smugly preening and constipated.
