Kharms (2017)

Kharms is special because it turns the plight of an unrecognized artist into something strangely exhilarating—part character study, part fever-dream portrait of a man who refuses to live at the world’s sensible speed. Ivan Bolotnikov films Daniil Yuvachov like a walking provocation: impeccably dressed, perpetually broke, magnetic at literary salons, and yet fundamentally alone, as if he’s performing genius for an audience that doesn’t know what to do with it. The vibe is witty, melancholic, and slightly surreal, capturing the contradictions of a mind at war with itself without reducing him to a simple martyr or clown. If you’re drawn to films about artists, ego, and the high cost of being “different,” it’s an absorbing watch—though anyone craving a tidy, plot-driven drama may find its drifting, inward rhythm more challenging than comforting.

Kharms is clearly aiming for a moody, artsy portrait of a self-mythologizing writer—more vibe and inner turmoil than neat biography—and it commits to that with real conviction. The catch is that it can feel deliberately elusive: scenes drift, motivations stay murky, and if you’re hoping for a clear rise-and-fall narrative or a tidy explanation of his genius, you may find it frustratingly thin. It’s also the kind of film where the protagonist’s arrogance and detachment are the point, but they can still make it hard to emotionally invest if you don’t have patience for self-sabotaging artists. If you like atmospheric character studies and don’t mind ambiguity, there’s something to admire here; if you want plot momentum and catharsis, this probably isn’t your night.