How Elaine May deconstructed the Cassavetes man in Mikey and Nicky
Kai Perrignon explores Elaine May's Mikey and Nicky, a film which saw a clarity of ugliness in Cassavetes' films and reflected it onscreen.
Kai Perrignon
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In 1998, the band Le Tigre, fronted by once and forever riot grrrl Kathleen Hanna, released ‘What’s Yr Take on Cassavetes’, which answers its titular question with alternating cries of “Genius!” and “Misogynist!” These responses are cheeky extremes, but they speak to a real struggle many viewers have when watching the work of American filmmaker John Cassavetes.
The progenitor of the American independent film scene, Cassavetes’ films are confronting character studies of tormented people trying (often through screaming matches) and failing to understand themselves and each other. And as much as I love many of the director’s films, it’s hard not to hear Le Tigre rattling around in my head as I watch them, struggling to place my knee-jerk repulsion at some of his ideas.
In the films of Cassavetes, men are inherently violent (mostly emotionally, though sometimes physically), primitive creatures who take out their inner frustrations on those around them. In A Woman Under the Influence, Cassavetes’ most famous film, a husband’s inability to understand his wife’s erratic behaviour causes him to mostly communicate in yells and – in one uncomfortable moment – a hard slap. He doesn’t change by the end of the film.
In Husbands, maybe the go-to film for evidence of Cassavetes’ misogyny, three middle-aged men freak out when a childhood friend dies, and they go on an extended bender where they treat everyone – especially the women around them – with a mixture of callousness, violence, and immature spite. They are unable to untangle themselves, and so they take it out on everyone around them.
That kind of behavioural description can be applied to the men in almost every Cassavetes film, and I can’t think of a single one where these male creatures grow as humans. Cassavetes seems to think that ugliness and misogyny are intrinsic to the male gender. Not quite a “boys will be boys” attitude: more of a dejected acceptance of the evils of men.
I don’t think that Cassavetes was a misogynist. His films are all absolutely critical of this abhorrent behaviour. But he is a romantic filmmaker, in the sense that he clearly values the nobility of his men’s futile attempts to change. At their core, Cassavetes’ films deeply respect every character as deeply human and worthy of compassion.
That’s a fine idea, but it inspires a bit of queasiness when one considers that many of these characters are – in Cassavetes’ world – irreparably awful men.
One of the best films that deconstructs this worldview is Elaine May’s – soon to be released as part of the Criterion collection – 1976 Mikey and Nicky. May’s film depicts the very long night that follows after Nicky (Cassavetes himself), a low-level mobster on the run from a contract on his head, calls his childhood best friend Mikey (Peter Falk – a long way off from the grandpa in ThePrincess Bride) for help. Mikey is as bitter as Nicky is paranoid, and their erratic, panicked odyssey across the city releases years of pent-up frustration and rage.
Elaine May was remaking a Cassavetes film in her own image.
May, who came to prominence working with fellow comedian Mike Nichols (who later made The Graduate) before directing the cringe-comedy classics A New Leaf and The Heartbreak Kid, uses the long takes and cluttered mise-en-scene of her previous work and pushes them to almost parodic extremes, resulting in an exhausting cinematic experience that perfectly emulates the feeling of Cassavetes’ directorial works – if not quite the look (Cassavetes would have used more close-ups).
The “one long night” conceit pushes the typical Cassavetes behaviour to its frantic end-point: any charm built into this type of characterisation is shaved away by the sheer relentlessness.
In essence, May was remaking a Cassavetes film in her own image. Her cringe-comedy background lends itself well to this sort of sweaty drama, but she’s seemingly less interested in how these men want to change and more in what devils they already are.
They are petty, they are selfish, and they barely even like the people they’re supposed to love. There is no nobility in their heart of hearts, no honour among thieves – they’re just two low-level arseholes looking out for number one, even and especially if that means screwing over each other, their wives, and the women around them.
In a key scene in the middle of the movie, Nicky and Mikey (both married) go to the house of the former’s mistress, Nellie. Promised a little action of his own, Mikey uncomfortably sits on a garbage can in the kitchen while Nicky has sex in the living room. After Nicky pulls up his zipper, Mikey kisses Nellie, under the mistaken impression that she is expecting him.
When she fails to reciprocate, Mikey slaps her, and Nicky berates her for her lack of hospitality. Nothing quite so extreme ever happens in any of Cassavetes’ films, but Mikey and Nicky’s flippant attitude towards their misogyny is eerily reflective of how his characters tend to act. Cassavetes never wrote a scene so unambiguously horrific but May saw a clarity of ugliness in his films – and was bold enough to put it onscreen.
In partnership with Grill Mates and Stubb's BBQ Sauce.
There’s something unmistakably raw about William Crighton. It’s there in his voice—deep, cracked, like bark peeling from a eucalypt—and in the stories he tells, steeped in red dirt, rolling hills, and river ghosts. But beyond the music, there’s another side to Crighton that’s just as grounded in the Australian bush: cooking.
To him, the fire pit and the fretboard aren’t all that different. “I approach music similar to how I approach cooking ,” he says, “which is, I don't know too much, and going back to that childhood curiosity and wonder.”
Bush Songs and Backyard Smoke
Crighton’s music is often shaped by time spent in nature—walking through scrubland, sitting by creeks, or staring into campfire flames. His songs are rooted in place, and so is his food. He’s not about complicated recipes or kitchen gadgets; his ideal cooking set-up is a cast iron grill over coals, a sharp knife, and the open sky.
“There’s something about the bush that strips things back to what matters,” he says. “It’s the same with cooking. When you’re out there, it’s just you, the fire, and whatever you’ve got on hand. That’s where the magic is.”
And while Crighton’s approach is humble, it’s far from bland. A believer in bold, honest flavour, he’s quick to call out two essentials in his campfire toolkit: Grill Mates seasoning and Stubb’s BBQ Sauce.
“I’m not a chef, but I know what tastes good,” he laughs. “Grill Mates have that smoky hit that just works with anything—lamb chops, kangaroo, even a grilled zucchini. And Stubb’s? That stuff’s got soul.”
Smoke and Soul
For Crighton, cooking is more than just survival—it’s ceremony. Whether he’s on tour or out bush with his family, there’s a rhythm to it. Gather wood. Light the fire. Let it burn down. Season the meat. Cook it slow. Sit, talk, eat, listen. It’s the same process as writing a song, he says. “You don’t rush it. You let it build. You taste as you go.”
That sense of time, patience, and presence defines both his music and his meals. There’s no room for distractions when you're working with fire and feeling your way through a song. It’s tactile. Sensory. Honest.
“A little bit of not knowing, that's where the best s*** comes,” he says. “Too much heat, too much spice, too many words—it’ll burn out or fall flat. But when you hit it just right? It’s unforgettable.”
Music, Meat, and Meaning
Ask Crighton about the perfect cook-up, and he won’t talk about sous-vide machines or reverse searing. He’ll talk about standing barefoot in the dust, his guitar nearby, kids running around, a bit of Stubb’s soaking into a thick ribeye as the sun drops low.
It’s not just about what’s on the plate—it’s who you’re sharing it with, what the day’s been like, what you’re listening to Will tells us. "Food and music are both about creating a moment. That’s the stuff people remember.”
As his songs continue to resonate around the world, from the stages of Nashville to the paddocks of New South Wales, William Crighton remains committed to that core philosophy: stay grounded, keep it simple, and always cook with heart.
Because whether he’s crafting a haunting verse or searing a steak, Crighton knows—the good stuff happens when you let the fire do its thing.
In partnership with Grill Mates and Stubb's BBQ Sauce.
There’s something unmistakably raw about William Crighton. It’s there in his voice—deep, cracked, like bark peeling from a eucalypt—and in the stories he tells, steeped in red dirt, rolling hills, and river ghosts. But beyond the music, there’s another side to Crighton that’s just as grounded in the Australian bush: cooking.
To him, the fire pit and the fretboard aren’t all that different. “I approach music similar to how I approach cooking ,” he says, “which is, I don't know too much, and going back to that childhood curiosity and wonder.”
Bush Songs and Backyard Smoke
Crighton’s music is often shaped by time spent in nature—walking through scrubland, sitting by creeks, or staring into campfire flames. His songs are rooted in place, and so is his food. He’s not about complicated recipes or kitchen gadgets; his ideal cooking set-up is a cast iron grill over coals, a sharp knife, and the open sky.
“There’s something about the bush that strips things back to what matters,” he says. “It’s the same with cooking. When you’re out there, it’s just you, the fire, and whatever you’ve got on hand. That’s where the magic is.”
And while Crighton’s approach is humble, it’s far from bland. A believer in bold, honest flavour, he’s quick to call out two essentials in his campfire toolkit: Grill Mates seasoning and Stubb’s BBQ Sauce.
“I’m not a chef, but I know what tastes good,” he laughs. “Grill Mates have that smoky hit that just works with anything—lamb chops, kangaroo, even a grilled zucchini. And Stubb’s? That stuff’s got soul.”
Smoke and Soul
For Crighton, cooking is more than just survival—it’s ceremony. Whether he’s on tour or out bush with his family, there’s a rhythm to it. Gather wood. Light the fire. Let it burn down. Season the meat. Cook it slow. Sit, talk, eat, listen. It’s the same process as writing a song, he says. “You don’t rush it. You let it build. You taste as you go.”
That sense of time, patience, and presence defines both his music and his meals. There’s no room for distractions when you're working with fire and feeling your way through a song. It’s tactile. Sensory. Honest.
“A little bit of not knowing, that's where the best s*** comes,” he says. “Too much heat, too much spice, too many words—it’ll burn out or fall flat. But when you hit it just right? It’s unforgettable.”
Music, Meat, and Meaning
Ask Crighton about the perfect cook-up, and he won’t talk about sous-vide machines or reverse searing. He’ll talk about standing barefoot in the dust, his guitar nearby, kids running around, a bit of Stubb’s soaking into a thick ribeye as the sun drops low.
It’s not just about what’s on the plate—it’s who you’re sharing it with, what the day’s been like, what you’re listening to Will tells us. "Food and music are both about creating a moment. That’s the stuff people remember.”
As his songs continue to resonate around the world, from the stages of Nashville to the paddocks of New South Wales, William Crighton remains committed to that core philosophy: stay grounded, keep it simple, and always cook with heart.
Because whether he’s crafting a haunting verse or searing a steak, Crighton knows—the good stuff happens when you let the fire do its thing.
