Alexei Solovyov trades domestic sadness for sarcastic observations about life in an era of habits that cannot always be explained even to oneself. His "The Last Solovyov" is an interweaving of Tatar flavor, family troubles and endless attempts to understand oneself, where adulthood turns out to be not so much about responsibility as about chronic fatigue.
With thoughts of the native language, the strangeness of people and cats that behave suspiciously human, everything here feels like a long conversation with yourself - if that conversation were unbearably honest. Europe without borders, but with an internal commentator who doesn't know how to turn off - the atmosphere is painfully recognizable.
