Big problems, both personal and financial, for a struggling minor-league hockey club and its aging player/manager Reggie Dunlop (Paul Newman). Nobody's coming out to see the games, despite an onslaught of cheap, misguided promotional campaigns, and several seasons' worth of meager attendance has killed the team's chemistry. When ownership ponders throwing in the towel, Dunlop goes for broke, abandoning his ideals in favor of the bloody, fists-first melee method. If you can't beat 'em with finesse, in other words, beat 'em with your fists. That sudden about-face, plus the introduction of three nearly identical, horn-rimmed goons (Irish triplets, it turns out) catches on with the working class locals and the team becomes a hot ticket virtually overnight.

It's an off-color premise, and a film that's certainly not bashful about probing the dirtier attitudes and actions of the traditional locker room culture. The unrelenting foul language was a big deal when this first came out, but that's less of an eye-opener today than the rampant homophobia. But hey, in both cases, it's an accurate portrayal. This is a seedy situation, in a particularly seedy era, occupied by generally seedy people. Even the screen looks filthy. A lot of the humor missed me, though, and when that fails it's a major drag. Too long, too single-note, too drab; it wants to be a rollicking good time, riding the fresh buzz of a wild night with reckless friends, but more often resembles the shattered, smokey aftermath of such a party.