Kramer on "Seinfeld" was as described as a "hipster doofus" and the incredibly label may possibly be handy to the filmmaker Florian Habicht - a bony Kiwi with a dopey laugh, peach-coloured khakis and a custom of buttonholing strangers. This in advance comedy finds him cool out in New York, everyplace he theoretically sets out to romance a young Russian woman (Masha Yakavenko) who functions as a wry turn off for his jesting.
Staged scenes flanked by this couple are ruined up by interludes of apparent documentary. Habicht chats to his set off on Skype from the container of his scungy villa, and wanders the picturesque streets quizzing strangers on what must govern gone in his fictitious relationship. Several suggestions are put into practice, even if others - such as the idea that Yakavenko must turn out to be a man - are inaccurately dismissed.
Asked if he's an artist, Habicht describes himself as a "con artist," a entirely but not totally fallacious self-assessment. Evidently he type to con us on some level, or at least keep us guessing about his intentions. Did he profoundly fall for Yakavenko at some point, and get going the project in order to mislay time with her? Or is this, too, subtly a fictitious conceit?
But it's hard to care about the answers. Sheltering sustaining his unobjectionably dorky persona, Habicht never shows us suchlike painful loads to glance real; the pall is far director an exercise in self-promotion than a study of the ups and downs of love.
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