Californication. Six men meet in the home of a buddy psychotherapist to talk about themselves and women. The real estate agent (Keitel) remembers one who put her tongue in his mouth. The doctor (Williams) remembers the one who came between him and his strawberry dessert - he kicked her. Attorney Langella's wife, thanks to analysis, discovered herself and scarpered with the furniture. Blah blah blah. When they have eaten all the food, drunk all the wine, and wrecked the place throwing knives, they move on to an up-market San Francisco brothel, where they all make out/up/mistakes. All, that is, except the shrink, rapped over the head with a casserole by his irate spouse. Flashes of genuine intelligence and wit in the writing only render the moral nihilism of the whole high-tack enterprise all the more inexcusable.