Yet another darkly comic drama about men behaving badly and the weak-willed, masochistic women they hurt in the process, Red Meat marks the directorial debut of Allison Burnett, the scribe behind Autumn In New York and Bloodfist III: Forced To Fight. John Slattery and Stephen Mailer star as the remaining remnants of a group of guys who gather to exercise, eat red meat, and talk about women. Slattery is a familiar archetype of male evil, a narcissistic, preening womanizer whose speech drips with casual and not-so-casual sexism, racism, and homophobia. Mailer is his only slightly less loathsome best friend, a pathetic sad sack who lives vicariously through Slattery's sexual misadventures. The film opens with the pair inviting James Frain to join their conversation, and much of its remainder consists of flashbacks relating three stories, one told by each man. The first revolves around Slattery's attempts to hide an infidelity from jealous fiancée Jennifer Grey, and epitomizes Red Meat's weirdly incongruous blend of Maxim-style smuttiness and second-rate Neil LaBute psychodrama. It opens on a lighthearted note, segues into Grey revealing her pregnancy and some limp physical comedy involving a telltale ring, and climaxes with Slattery physically assaulting her. The film's second story, which involves Slattery and Mailer swapping sexual partners on a date, rings just as false, as does Frain's concluding story, a tale of life-affirming romance with a cancer patient that feels like a dry run for Autumn In New York. Serving as a Greek chorus for the testosterone-filled gabfest is Traci Lind, a sassy, straight-talking waitress who seems to have been coaxed into slavishly imitating Janeane Garofalo's every tic and mannerism. The director (a man, despite his first name) saves most of his venom for his two male antiheroes, but women don't fare a whole lot better: Each is either a ditsy, bubble-headed tramp or a prim, disapproving moralist. Burnett directs with a fair amount of visual style, but all the stylistic flair in the world wouldn't make Red Meat's ham-fisted voyage into the male psyche any less familiar or unpleasant.