It’s easy to underestimate the everyman. After all, they’re the ones—average, unremarkable, weighed down by mortgages, kids, and the grind of routine—who cast their votes for populists and, when push comes to shove, gleefully cross every line of decency in the name of collective or personal gain. This isn’t exactly a groundbreaking revelation; it’s a truth so worn it feels almost trite to state. Yet, every so often, it demands to be shouted from the rooftops as if it’s divine insight. God, as we know, has long been dead—especially in the suburbs. Peter Berg’s 1998 black comedy *Very Bad Things* takes this grim observation and runs with it, spiraling into a grotesque, unforgettable carnival of moral decay. What begins as a bachelor party in Las Vegas—booze, drugs, and debauchery—snowballs into accidental double murder, dismemberment, and a body count that escalates with the cold logic of a geometric progression. The victims? Two members of marginalized groups, a detail that feels both provocative and uncomfortably exploitative even by the standards of the late ’90s. This is only the starting point for a story about five friends who, in their desperate bid to cover their tracks, plunge headfirst into a void of amorality. *Very Bad Things* is a film that’s impossible to shake, not because it’s a masterpiece, but because it’s so unrelentingly cynical, so gleefully misanthropic, that it leaves a lingering, rancid aftertaste. By today’s standards, it feels like a transgressive relic—a film that doesn’t just push boundaries but obliterates them with a sledgehammer. To understand *Very Bad Things*, one must first consider its context. The late 1990s were a curious era for American cinema. The indie boom of the early decade had given way to a mainstreaming of edgy, provocative content. Films like *Pulp Fiction* (1994) and *Fargo* (1996) had normalized a blend of violence, humor, and moral ambiguity, paving the way for darker, riskier comedies. Yet, even among its contemporaries, *Very Bad Things* stood out as an outlier. Where Tarantino’s violence was stylized and Coen-esque irony was meticulously crafted, Berg’s film feels raw, chaotic, and deliberately unpolished. It’s less a carefully constructed satire than a Molotov cocktail lobbed at the audience’s sensibilities. The plot follows Kyle Fisher (Jon Favreau), a soon-to-be-married everyman whose Las Vegas bachelor party with his four friends—Robert (Christian Slater), Charles (Leland Orser), Michael (Jeremy Piven), and Adam (Daniel Stern)—takes a catastrophic turn. A stripper’s accidental death during a drug-fueled night sets off a chain reaction of panic, cover-ups, and increasingly unhinged decisions. The group’s attempts to dispose of the body (and, later, another victim) spiral into a nightmare of betrayal, infighting, and absurdly escalating violence. By the time the credits roll, the film has left behind a trail of corpses, shattered relationships, and a grim commentary on the fragility of suburban normalcy. The ensemble cast is one of the film’s strongest assets, delivering performances that oscillate between darkly comedic and genuinely unsettling. Christian Slater, as the sociopathic Robert, is the standout. His character, a real estate agent with a penchant for control, emerges as the group’s de facto leader, steering them deeper into depravity with a chilling mix of charisma and menace. Slater’s performance is a masterclass in controlled chaos, channeling the same slimy intensity he brought to roles like J.D. in *Heathers* (1989). Jon Favreau, meanwhile, plays Kyle as a man unraveling under pressure, his everyman persona crumbling as he’s forced to confront the consequences of his choices. Jeremy Piven’s Michael, a volatile loose cannon, and Daniel Stern’s Adam, a neurotic family man, add layers of dysfunction to the group dynamic, while Leland Orser’s Charles serves as the jittery voice of panic, perpetually on the verge of collapse. Cameron Diaz, as Kyle’s fiancée Laura, deserves special mention. Her character could easily have been a one-note caricature of the demanding bride, but Diaz infuses her with a terrifying intensity. Laura’s obsession with her perfect wedding morphs into a willingness to embrace the group’s crimes, making her one of the film’s most chilling figures. The cast’s chemistry—or lack thereof—mirrors the fracturing of their characters’ friendships, lending authenticity to the film’s descent into chaos. Tonally, *Very Bad Things* is a tightrope walk. It’s a black comedy, but one that leans so heavily into the “black” that it often feels more like a horror film. The humor is there—gallows humor, to be sure—but it’s the kind that makes you wince rather than laugh. Scenes of dismemberment, played for shock value, are juxtaposed with absurd arguments over logistics and morality, creating a dissonance that’s both deliberate and disorienting. Berg’s direction doesn’t shy away from the grotesque; if anything, it revels in it. The camera lingers on blood-soaked motel rooms and mangled bodies, forcing the audience to confront the visceral reality of the characters’ actions. This unrelenting approach is both the film’s strength and its Achilles’ heel. For every moment of biting satire—such as the group’s increasingly absurd justifications for their crimes—there’s a scene that feels gratuitous, as if Berg is testing how much the audience can stomach. The violence, while cartoonish at times, often crosses into territory that feels exploitative, particularly in its treatment of the marginalized victims. A stripper and a hotel security guard, both minorities, are dispatched with a casualness that, even in 1998, raised eyebrows. By 2025 standards, these choices feel even more problematic, a reminder of the era’s cavalier attitude toward representation. At its core, *Very Bad Things* is a film about the dark underbelly of suburban masculinity. The five friends are archetypes of middle-class America: real estate agents, family men, professionals trapped in the monotony of their lives. Their Vegas getaway is less a celebration than an escape, a chance to indulge in the reckless freedom they’ve been denied by their buttoned-up existence. But when that freedom leads to catastrophe, their true natures are revealed. Loyalty, friendship, and morality crumble under the weight of self-preservation, exposing the cowardice and selfishness at the heart of their suburban dream. This theme resonates even more powerfully in 2025, as the cultural conversation around toxic masculinity and privilege has grown louder. The film’s portrayal of men unraveling under pressure feels prescient, a precursor to later works like *Breaking Bad* or *Succession*, which explore similar themes with more nuance. Yet, where those stories offer shades of gray, *Very Bad Things* is uncompromisingly bleak. There are no heroes here, only flawed, desperate people making increasingly terrible choices. Upon its release, *Very Bad Things* was a box-office flop, grossing just under $10 million against a $10 million budget. Critics were divided: some praised its audacity and dark humor, while others recoiled at its nihilism and perceived mean-spiritedness. Roger Ebert gave it a scathing one-star review, calling it “not a bad movie, just a reprehensible one.” Others, like Entertainment Weekly’s Owen Gleiberman, saw value in its unapologetic edge, describing it as “a comedy of outrageously bad taste.” The film’s polarizing reception likely contributed to its obscurity; by 2025, it’s a footnote in the careers of its now-famous cast and director. Why did it fail? For one, *Very Bad Things* was a hard sell. Marketed as a raucous comedy, it likely alienated audiences expecting a lighthearted romp. Its tone, which swings wildly between farce and horror, didn’t fit neatly into any genre box. Moreover, its relentless cynicism may have been too much for mainstream audiences, even those accustomed to the era’s edgy fare. The film’s treatment of sensitive topics—race, gender, violence—also didn’t help, drawing accusations of bad taste that linger to this day. Yet, for all its flaws, *Very Bad Things* has a strange staying power. It’s the kind of film that burrows into your brain, its images and ideas lingering long after the credits roll. The absurdity of its violence, the pettiness of its characters, and the sheer audacity of its premise make it a singular experience. In an era where films are often sanitized to avoid offense, *Very Bad Things* feels like a middle finger to propriety—a reminder of a time when filmmakers could take risks, even if those risks didn’t always pay off. By 2025 standards, the film is undeniably dated. Its handling of race and gender feels tone-deaf, and its shock tactics can come off as juvenile rather than subversive. Yet, there’s something oddly refreshing about its refusal to moralize or redeem its characters. In a cinematic landscape dominated by formulaic narratives and tidy resolutions, *Very Bad Things* is a chaotic, unapologetic mess—a film that dares to be unlikeable.