



Looking for an escape from suburban malaise, three middle-aged friends embark on a boozy odyssey that’s equal parts liberation and self-destruction. Cassavetes captures something uncomfortably true about male friendship—the way grown men revert to adolescent cruelty when confronted with mortality. Ben Gazzara, Peter Falk, and Cassavetes himself deliver performances that feel less like acting than eavesdropping on actual breakdowns.
The film’s notorious length works both for and against it. Extended scenes of drunken singing and bathroom confessions create genuine intimacy, but also test patience like a house guest who won’t leave. Recently, I’ve heard it said, that Cassavetes is a misogynist. I really don’t believe that to be true. In his character studies, he observes some who are misogynists, and no more than in Husbands. These men aren’t heroes—they’re specimens under his unflinching microscope.
The result is cinema that’s simultaneously magnetic and exhausting, like the friends it depicts. Flawed but fearless filmmaking.