They start bickering mere moments into their chance encounter. Yet the movie is, for the most part, excruciating—a bewildering, deadening experience that, for all its emphasis on its great actors, leaves them to display their talents and exert their craft in a cinematic and psychological void. They do all the work to bring a head-scratching script and neutered images to life, and they do it with energy and enthusiasm, yet I found myself watching the film with embarrassment for them, for the actions that they were directed to perform in service of a grotesquely misconceived movie. Frank is a gruff, dour corporate executive who works out obsessively and faces life cynically. But Levin films the actors talking with no visual imagination or intimacy whatsoever, as if his great and apt respect for their talent led him to keep his distance, to avoid proximity to their aura. He creates a middling and vague proscenium, a set of virtual theatre frames in which they can stand or, for the most part, sit and deliver their lines, but even that series of frames is wan and familiar.