Christian Bale has turned playing the sociopath into an art form. From the kill-happy preppy of American Psycho to the creepy insomniac of The Machinist, he has an ability to switch his dark eyes into cold pools of nothingness and to clench his square jaw into hard steel. In Harsh Times, he plays one of his most despicable characters yet: a musclehead ex–army ranger so fucked up by the bloodbath in Iraq that he revels in the misogyny, boozing, and violence of his South Central ’hood. But this time Bale throws himself into his role with such maniacal conviction that it works against him: for much of the movie, we’re crammed in a car cruising for kicks with this unredeemable redneck, and it’s anything but a joy ride.

Jim (Bale) is back in his L.A. digs after a stint in the war and is hanging with his homeboy Mike (Freddy mRodrí­guez). Screenwriter David Ayer makes his directorial debut here, and just like in his Training Day, there’s a bad character (Bale) trying to lead a good guy (Rodrí­guez) astray. Jim goads unemployed Mike into telling his lawyer girlfriend (Eva Longoria) that they’re dropping off résumés, but instead they spend their days driving aimlessly, fuelled by 40-ouncers of malt liquor and copious amounts of herb, alternately trying to get laid, getting into gangland shootouts, and stealing guns and drugs.

Ayer uses this seedy setting as the unlikely canvas for a fair amount of satire on America’s state of affairs. Jim morphs instantly back into “Yes sir, no sir” mode as he searches for employment, and it turns out his off-kilter taste for violence may be just the thing the Department of Homeland Security is looking for.

Still, Jim’s nastiness should be rooted in his battle trauma, but we only glimpse it in the film’s opening sequence, where he’s shaking from a nightmare in the arms of his passive Mexican girlfriend. We never see that kind of vulnerability again, so his Taxi Driver–style implosion, after a seemingly endless road trip, evokes zero sympathy. Even Robert De Niro’s Mohawked madman had some semblance of a moral compass, mixed up as it was. Harsh Times plays better as a jet-black comedy, but the more sentimental moments between Mike and his “woman” take away from its bite. Ayer’s inability to write a female character as other than a ho or a saint undermines Harsh Times’ central relationships.

All that stays with you is that soulless, icy grin on Bale’s face. It’s all a bit harsh—even for these harsh times.