This probably sounded like a good idea at the time: put Ifans and Fiennes in a caper thriller from cult author James Hawes, mix in Frost and Fitzgerald for the sex, and a Russian Mafia plot should supply cold steel. Might have been semi-watchable, too, until you factor in a director who's too intent on flinging the camera around, laying on jazzy lighting effects and over-indulging a sub-Morricone score to notice that he's left the actors to their own devices, while the audience wonder what on earth is going on. The story has something to do with Ifans inheriting daddy's company, and Fiennes, his accountant, plotting with Russki bad guys to get control of the business himself. Frost is Mrs Ifans and they're going through fertility problems, which push hubby into the accommodating arms of Fitzgerald, daughter of Russian mob king-pin Steven Berkoff (dire). The freefalling quandary into which this drives gung-ho Ifans leaves him with the taste of 'less than nothing, like rancid aluminium' in his mouth, until he devises a way of striking back.