Only one thing could have redeemed this sketch. A healthy gunfight between the happy couple, the exotic model at the delicatessen, and the old-timer from the motel who was (it would have turned out) secretly watching from the woods and had been aging rent-boy to the guys when they'd shared the rubber house. <br /><br />In the process, they could have blown that freezing shack to smithereens, resolved most of the snags; such as the "whore bitch" ode on the windscreen, the reason why the protagonist had "no friends," as well as explaining his coolness under pressure from bloody tampon, incessant phone calls . . . and that crawl-space chic, the green thumb, and his attraction to the simpler life. Quite the technician with the human body, though. Ex-abortionist? Morgue attendant? A bit of a heartbeat would have been nice.<br /><br />It was fun watching these people move around, I guess, but Eleanora's silly Italian games were suffocatingly stereotypical while the caretaker had been to too many yoga classes: a dick, a mind, and a pick-up truck about summed it up for him. I also wished they could have had a bit more luggage: Eleanora is ready to go after putting some black underwear into her nifty red suitcase and the caretaker just needs a cardboard carton there at the motel.<br /><br />Trifling matters, you may well say. I agree, although the niggling bits just didn't add up right in this rush job. Good owl-wrangling, though, and I really felt cold all the way through.