







There’s something instantly comforting about a film that treats a café like a church: you turn up, talk rubbish, and pretend you’re fine. Adulthood’s pulled up a chair, but nobody’s ready to serve it.
Barry Levinson’s directorial debut parks us in Baltimore, 1959, in that dead zone between Christmas and New Year where time goes weird. The film mostly hangs out — chats, jokes, digs, repeat — but the pressure is there. Weddings are coming, jobs are half-formed, and Eddie’s Colts quiz for his fiancée is less “cute tradition” and more “mate, what are you doing?”
The joys are in the small wars: the roast-beef sandwich stand-off, the strip-club piano scene, and a wedding toast that lands like a cuddle with a pin in it. Kevin Bacon’s Fenwick is brittle charm on legs — smiling, needling, quietly spiralling. The women are short-changed (Ellen Barkin still brings bite), which dates it.
It’s a bit shaggy and occasionally drifts, but it nails that moment when your friends are everything… right before life starts filing you into separate folders.