Anton Borisov cheerfully wades through St. Petersburg's melancholy, trying to find the funny in clubs, children's games with the Rosgvardia and family dynasties of fighting women. His humor is a mixture of nostalgia for a great childhood and fatigue with the new rules of the game, where even mate is banned and sports have turned into a series about "throwing queens." In an era when Clubhouse is like eavesdropping on a telephone and cultural rituals like museums and comic books are losing their relevance, Borisov deftly balances absurdity and everyday reality, reminding us that a smile is still our rare resource.
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