After their two 11 year-old sons fight in a local park, a quartet of well-heeled Brooklynites gather in one of their apartments to discuss the issue. But their veneer of civility is soon torn to shreds as the participants descend into an orgy of recrimination, murdered mobiles and puked-on art catalogues.
A quartet of pitch-perfect performances from a cast uniformly at its career best, together with a director on shockingly mischievous top form, this is a shot of pure, exhilarating cinematic malice. And if nothing else, it contains the most surprising puking sequence since Monsieur Creosote.
Reviewed by Adam Smith
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