The whole thing feels like middle-period Mamet with English accents, and not much to say.

It's an interesting spectacle, but not enough to carry a movie.

The frequently profane dialogue suggests David Mamet on an off-night (so does Malcolm Venville's claustrophobia-inducing direction), though the first-rate cast works hard.

With violence on the menu, it's a guilty pleasure to watch these stage-trained hambones unleash a rapid-fire roundelay of righteous indignation.

After a while you can see why the wayward wife moved on to fresher prospects. Our man Ray is all talk, no bloody action.