Factotum isn't for everybody, certainly not the abstentious. But there's no denying it, Chinaski appeals to our inner anarchist.

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Dillon delivers with a cocky denseness that is at once hilarious and poignant...

The transplant didn't take in Barfly, and it works no better here in Factotum. In each case, the baying of the boozehounds just seems repetitious and banal -- the noise endures but the joy is gone.

Bleak-ish, inebriated and quite exhilarating in the full-on Bukowski fashion.

Quite dull, truth be told. As good as Dillon and Taylor are in their roles, making us side with them even as we despise them, there's not a whole lot that happens in a life ruled by the bottle, the butt and the shag.

It's not a great film but it might seem great because it does justice to the life force of an exceptional man who had something to say about not being mediocre.

At its best when it taps into the allure of indolence: The almost scandalous feeling of freedom that comes from sitting on a barstool in midafternoon, without a job, a schedule or responsibilities.

Dillon is play(s) ... still and deep but with a suggestion of a kind of social autism that prevents Hank from succeeding at even the most modest level of human enterprise.

A more apt title for this film might be - Alcoholic writers who can't hold a job and the low-life women who love them.