Reykjavík

For those under the impression that Icelandic life consists solely of fishing and the hosting of international summits, this triangle of love, lust, and misunderstanding from director Baltasar Kormakur is a welcome treat.

A funny, touching, off-the-wall relationer that's one of the freshest helming debuts in world cinema this year.

A wonderful, cockeyed sex comedy.

Feels as though it is not about much, but it is so well acted that the lassitude becomes a part of the atmosphere.

The tone of the film is in keeping with its most resounding image: Hilynur lying in the snow with a cigarette dangling from his mouth as the suicide note on his chest blows away in the wind as he wakes up.

Kormakur's debut feature fulfills the basic requirements of good slacker comedy: It's grounded in quotidian tedium and frustration, and it acknowledges both the humor and pathos of the relevant coping mechanisms (here, lackadaisical flings, porn addiction, amnesia-courting binges).

But the main reason you might find the film a bad trip is that its 30-year-old Holden Caulfield-type hero is so harrowingly unsympathetic: unpleasant, unappealing, self-pitying.