Harris, directing himself (an embarrassing debut in that department) as an ageing Israeli soccer star, has a row with his plump sculptress girlfriend (Schneider). 'Give eet up!' she begs. 'You don't understand. They need me' he says, miming exasperation. There's even a clock ticking in the background. All this plus potted music and long shots of architecture and desertscapes. Bloomfield never approaches even the energy level of those hilariously dated commercials which send you scurrying to the ice-cream girl as a hero-worshipping kid hovers and Harris is offered a car to throw the game. Hanging up by your nipples may be masochism, but this is suicide.