INTRODUCTION: ALL THE WRONG MOVES
The Men’s Club, a 1986 ensemble drama directed by Peter Medak and based on Leonard Michaels’ novel, is the cinematic equivalent of a dinner party where every man airs his grievances about women, life, and aging over lukewarm scotch and misguided bravado. Featuring an impressive cast on paper—including Roy Scheider, Harvey Keitel, Richard Jordan, Frank Langella, Treat Williams, David Dukes, and Craig Wasson—the film wastes their talents in a self-indulgent exercise in arrested development masquerading as emotional honesty.
This isn’t just a film that has aged poorly; it felt out of touch even at the time of its release. The ideas it explores—men confronting vulnerability, masculinity, and interpersonal failure—could have formed the basis of a compelling psychological study. Instead, The Men’s Club devolves into therapy session monologues, shallow revelations, and some of the most stilted, tone-deaf dialogue of the decade. It’s a film where everyone talks and no one listens, including the audience.
PLOT: A NIGHT OF NOTHING
The plot, such as it is, revolves around a gathering of seven men, all successful professionals, who meet at a wealthy psychiatrist’s home (Frank Langella as Harold Canterbury) for a kind of modern primal scream session. The idea is to drop their guard, confess their failings, share their secrets, and emerge as stronger, more authentic versions of themselves. What actually happens is a lot of narcissistic venting, occasional shouting, and a jaunt to a brothel that’s meant to be liberating but plays like a deleted scene from a much worse movie.
The men gripe about their wives, their mistresses, their erectile issues, their daddy issues, and occasionally, their own lack of meaning. What they never do is evolve or reach any kind of insight. The narrative loops through contrived arguments, bizarre tantrums, and one surreal moment where Roy Scheider (as Cavanaugh) strips naked and howls like a wolf. That scene might have been intended to symbolize raw masculine liberation, but on screen, it feels more like the death throes of dignity.
ROY SCHEIDER: A LOST CAUSE IN SEARCH OF A CHARACTER
Roy Scheider plays Cavanaugh, a man who once might have had gravitas but now mostly scowls and complains. Scheider, a reliably intense actor in better roles (Jaws, All That Jazz, Sorcerer), is trapped in a part that gives him little to do but posture and sulk. Cavanaugh’s issues are vague and contradictory—he wants connection, but he also wants to be left alone. He claims to hate women, but he pines for lost lovers. It would be one thing if the character were conflicted; the real problem is that he’s incoherent.
Scheider commits, but there’s no humanity in the script for him to cling to. The screenplay expects us to sympathize with these men, but gives us no reason to. Cavanaugh isn’t flawed in a fascinating way; he’s a bitter man with a half-baked philosophy and a full glass of self-pity.
THE ENSEMBLE: GREAT ACTORS, LOUSY ROLES
Harvey Keitel plays Solly Berliner, a successful businessman whose neuroses emerge in bursts of juvenile rage. Keitel has always thrived in roles where he can go dark or soulful; here he does both, but to no effect. Solly’s rants about emasculation and betrayal feel like rehashed stand-up routines that never made it past open mic night.
Richard Jordan plays Kramer, whose affable veneer masks layers of repressed disappointment. Jordan brings his usual intelligence to the role but is handcuffed by overwrought dialogue and illogical mood swings.
David Dukes is Phillip, the closest thing the film has to an emotional anchor. But even his character, arguably the most empathetic, drowns in the sea of posturing.
Craig Wasson (as Paul), Treat Williams (as Terry), and Frank Langella (as Harold Canterbury) round out the male leads, each offering different shades of disillusionment. Langella fares best, coasting on his natural charisma, but even he cannot salvage the film’s awkward transitions or shallow psychology.
DIALOGUE: WHEN MEN TALK AND SAY NOTHING
Much of the film consists of talking. Endless talking. But unlike something like Glengarry Glen Ross, where words are weapons, or My Dinner with Andre, where conversation is a spiritual journey, The Men’s Club presents dialogue as a kind of emotional dumping ground. Every character speaks in long, meandering monologues that attempt to sound profound but land with a thud.
Here’s a paraphrased example: “We don’t make love, we make agreements. Sex used to be about fire. Now it’s about mortgages.” That kind of faux-philosophy peppers the script, as though someone scribbled half-baked observations into a cocktail napkin and called it screenwriting.
These men aren’t really talking to each other. They’re performing, mostly for themselves. There’s no genuine exchange of ideas. And there’s certainly no growth.
WOMEN IN THE FILM: ABSENT, ABUSED, OR OBJECTIFIED
Stockard Channing (Nancy), Gina Gallego (Felicia), Cindy Pickett (Hannah), Gwen Welles (Redhead), Penny Baker (Lake), Rebeccah Bush (Stella), Claudia Cron (Stacey), Ann Dusenberry (Page), Marilyn Jones (Allison), Manette LaChance (Billy), and Jennifer Jason Leigh (Teensy) fill out the female cast, but their characters are one-dimensional.
They are wives to be resented, lovers to be feared, and prostitutes to be exploited. No woman is allowed to have a point of view independent of a man’s grievance. This one-sidedness might be defensible if the film were a critique of toxic masculinity. But The Men’s Club never questions its premise. It seems to believe these men are saying something worth hearing.
DIRECTION: MEANDERING AND INDECISIVE
Peter Medak is no stranger to character-driven films, having directed the intense The Ruling Class and the chilling The Changeling. But here, his usually sharp instincts are dulled. The direction feels static, with most scenes unfolding like filmed stage plays—shot-reverse-shot exchanges, flat compositions, and repetitive blocking.
The pacing is another major issue. The film plods from one confessional to the next, with little sense of build or variation. Even the shift to the brothel, which should inject energy or danger, feels strangely lifeless.
THEMES: WHAT THEMES?
What is The Men’s Club trying to say? That men are confused? That society has robbed them of their vitality? That relationships are prisons and sex workers are therapists? The film throws a lot of ideas at the wall but none of them stick.
A better film might have explored these men’s discontent through a more satirical lens, or leaned into the surrealism of their breakdowns. Instead, The Men’s Club wallows in its self-seriousness.
LEGACY: AN UNINTENTIONAL TIME CAPSULE OF MALE FRAGILITY
Viewed today, The Men’s Club plays like a museum piece of outdated gender dynamics. It doesn’t provoke outrage so much as exhaustion. It reminds us of an era when introspection was confused with narcissism, and vulnerability was used as a backdoor justification for bad behavior.
CONCLUSION: STAY AWAY FROM THIS CLUB
The Men’s Club wastes a talented cast on a script that has nothing insightful to say. It mistakes whining for wisdom, performance for connection, and nudity for authenticity. While the idea of exploring male vulnerability and interpersonal struggle is valid, the execution here is tone-deaf and dramatically inert.
If you want to watch a group of men unravel in compelling, cinematic ways, there are far better options out there. This film, on the other hand, should be filed under “well-intentioned disasters.” Roy Scheider deserved better. So did we.
FINAL SCORE: 3/10 — Great actors, pointless script, and a whole lot of talking that leads nowhere. Skip the therapy session.
