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Don't expect to find subtle performances in this surreal treat. Russell, the criminally beautiful slut-goddess of art-house movies, becomes shrill in the upper registers of emotion. And Oldman is so acutely the rotten kid that you may want to stand him in the corner. These are not heroes to cherish: they are tiny figures on a Blue Velvet landscape, bleating out their obsessions. But in their cries is the music of recognizable people with their defenses down and their lurid nightmares ascendant. In Track 29 every woman is a flower demanding to open, and every man is a little boy lost.