Observing Without Judgment, Feeling Without Force

Read Time:5 Minute, 26 Second

MOVIE REVIEW
ILoveRuss
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Genre: Documentary
Year Released: 2025
Runtime: 1h 27m
Director(s): Tova Mozard
Where To Watch: shown at CPH:DOX 2025

RAVING REVIEW: Every once in a while, a movie creeps up on you—not with spectacle or plot-driven fireworks, but with a quiet, personal depth that slowly draws you into its orbit. ILOVERUSS isn’t designed to dazzle. It’s a deeply personal, occasionally disorienting, and strangely absorbing look at a friendship shaped by performance, memory, and the magic of long-term collaboration. What starts as a light creative partnership morphs into a layered story about identity, loneliness, and the blurry intersection between reality and fiction.

The film tracks the evolving relationship between Swedish filmmaker Tova Mozard and Hollywood extra Russ Kingston, two people from completely different worlds who find a curious, creative kinship. Their first meeting on a small film set didn’t foreshadow anything monumental. But what began with a shared enthusiasm for storytelling and character play turned into a 20-year documentation of personal evolution. The hook here is the raw material: a story told through fragments, spontaneous monologues, VHS-era footage, and unplanned conversations that feel less like documentary scenes and more like emotional snapshots.

Mozard doesn’t treat the film like a traditional character study or glossy retrospective. ILOVERUSS behaves more like a psychological indie drama in which the fourth wall never existed. The storytelling is deliberately loose, drifting between past and present with no clear road map. But instead of feeling chaotic, it reflects the organic way relationships develop. We don’t remember our lives in tidy acts—we remember moods, moments, emotions. And that’s exactly how this movie tackles the story.

There’s a raw, almost improvisational energy to how Russ and Tova interact on camera. He’s not simply the subject; he’s also the co-writer of the world they create. Over the years, Russ has used his space—his apartment, the nearby streets, his imagination—as assets for self-directed performances. His alter egos and character bits are both creative release and emotional armor. How he invents, reinterprets, and sometimes loses himself in roles is part of performance art and psychological insulation.

But as time passes, those same performances start to feel like walls. Once brimming with eccentric charm and theatrical energy, Russ shows signs of emotional withdrawal. His invented universe, once a sandbox for self-expression, becomes a quiet, self-imposed exile. You sense that the characters he’s playing aren’t just fun—they’re necessary. And that’s where the tension builds—not through conflict, but through the slow realization that the lines between acting and coping have all but vanished.

Mozard, for her part, doesn’t shy away from the uncomfortable parts of their journey. She’s not a passive observer. Her voice is in the film. Her face is on screen. She doesn’t edit out the arguments or the uncomfortable silences. There’s no attempt to create a polished narrative. The imperfections—awkward pauses, disagreements, lingering silences—give the film emotional weight.

One of the more subtle achievements here is how the movie quietly critiques the entertainment industry without turning it into a lecture. Russ has spent his life on the edges of film sets, playing characters that disappear into the background. While others are chasing stardom, he’s chasing presence—just being part of the world he loves, even if it never really sees him. His story reflects a side of the industry rarely shown on screen: the labor that builds the backdrop but never gets the applause.

And then there’s the setting—Los Angeles, captured without the glitz. This isn’t the postcard version. The movie shows a city that feels worn, ordinary, and alive with contradictions. Movie theaters look like monuments to something fading away. Sidewalks and convenience stores become recurring landmarks in a narrative not concerned with movement but with emotional stillness. The way the city is filmed echoes the core of the film itself—spaces that are familiar but loaded with personal meaning.

As the film nears its end, the tone subtly shifts. Russ’ presence begins to recede—not as a dramatic narrative twist but as a gradual erosion. His health declines and his communication becomes less grounded. Eventually, Mozard pulls back—not because the story is finished but because real life sometimes calls for presence over production. The final scenes aren’t neatly wrapped up; they just gently fade, like the last scene of a movie that knows not everything needs closure.

ILOVERUSS doesn’t offer a takeaway message or an emotional crescendo. It asks you to reflect rather than react. It’s personal, a little messy, and deeply sincere. The story isn’t extraordinary in Hollywood, but that’s exactly why it sticks. It’s about the spaces people build to feel seen, the roles they invent to survive, and the connections that outlast the spotlight. It may not hit every note perfectly, but it stays with you, quietly challenging you to think about whose stories we tell—and why.

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[photo courtesy of PICKY PICTURES]

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