Vladimir Bukharov is a comedian whose concerts resemble daily survival somewhere between Soviet shoes, a month's stress and a dream of an exodus to tropical shores. His main weapon is tired sarcasm: it turns even everyday humiliation into farce, and personal dramas into an occasion to reflect on the fate of an entire generation.
Bukharov does not build tales of growing up or success. Everything he shows on stage is the absurdity of modern Russia, where people go on dates out of sporting interest, go to therapy out of desperation, and investments end up with the exchange of an apartment for a couple of pieces of paper and moral overload. My mood is like after polysorb: it seems to be easier, but it was all for nothing.
The topics of sex, relationships, family misunderstandings and male revelations in him are invariably accompanied by philosophical dissatisfaction and ruthless irony. In a world where every happiness is on a timer, and the main quest is to keep one's sanity, Vladimir Bukharov sets the accents in such a way that one wants, if not to laugh, at least not to weep.
