I'm slithering around on my belly in a chic warehouse flat with no windows and a jammed front door, Psycho shower scene sound effects shrieking in my ears, injected with a fatal overdose of sex hormone that only gives me 30 minutes to sink my teeth into 150 pounds of thirty something-ish designer flesh while squinting through an 8am fish-eye lens. What am I? Right. I'm a bemused black mamba with a schizophrenic libido (a randy poisonous snake to you) chasing Trudie Styler around because her rich ex-husband can't deal with the business parties on his own, nor with the fact that she hates his designer gadgets and executive toys. Welcome to the flip side of Fatal Attraction: 7,287 feet of 'serious' camera work with a plot worthy of a third-rate acid trip. The heavy mythological pointers (Styler plays Eva) are completely subverted by Orfini's insistence on fondling Styler's bum from as many obscure angles as possible.