The press kit interview with director Tova Mozard was carried out for NOISE FILM & TV ahead of the film's world premiere at CPH:DOX 2025. Image credit: ILOVERUSS, Tova Mozard.

How did you cross paths with Russ, and what compelled you to start filming him?

Tova Mozard: I crossed paths with Russ while we were both extras on a film set. It was for my teacher’s wife’s independent film, so I was helping out. Ross and I met by the snacks and just struck up a conversation. He caught my interest because he seemed fascinating, and I was drawn to certain types of characters. Honestly, I don’t even remember what we talked about—maybe camera work or role-playing—but whatever it was, it left an impression.

So it didn’t start with me asking him to be the subject of a film, and it wasn’t really about me simply filming him. It was more like, “Let’s hang out and try things out—me behind the camera and him in front.” It came from mutual interest. The fact that he’d been an extra in so many films also intrigued me.

What started as “an unlikely collaboration” on set between Russ and you, a Swedish film student at the time, matured into a friendship. At one point in the film, Russ mentions your “enduring attention for him.” When did you realise that your friendship with Russ was an integral part of the film’s story?

TM: I felt comfortable with him from the very start. I guess that’s how friendship begins—when it feels easy. It’s something unspoken that you just know, and it doesn’t have anything to do with gender or age. I was young and didn’t care much about social expectations or think about what was in it for me. He was just a generous and enthusiastic guy, and it was enjoyable to visit him. Plus, having the camera made it different. Otherwise, I probably wouldn’t have just wanted to meet for coffee—I wanted to do something.

The realisation that our friendship was an essential part of the film’s story didn’t set in until I started editing. As I filmed him, I had no intention to make a feature film out of it at first. Plus, I wasn’t filming him every year for 20 years, and the material felt somewhat scattered. Over the years, I did think about myself in relation to him—how my life had changed, going from an art student to a professional artist, then becoming a mother, a wife, a divorcée, and so on. Meanwhile, his life seemed to stay much the same. With time, I felt a growing sense of responsibility. In a way, our friendship grew more intimate as I watched him age and gradually decline. Friendship is one thing in reality, and another in the editing room. But it was beautiful to see the different stages of our friendship—more innocent at first, then arguing a bit, and then me caring for him. It followed a natural path in both the film and real life, however for me, they felt like two separate journeys.

What challenges did you face in portraying the trajectory of this friendship on screen?

TM: At the very end, when he was beginning to enter this parallel universe, I felt responsible for filming and his life, in a way. So that was overwhelming. I was a little shaken because I had always thought of him as someone really grounded in reality, but with his own unique way of thinking and living. That inspired me for years, as he was someone who didn’t need this or that; he could just decide for himself what he wanted to do and how to do it, almost like a punk gesture. So when he fell ill, I began to question whether I had misjudged him or the idea of looking up to someone living in their own parallel universe. Maybe he had been mentally ill all along. And I questioned my own judgement for a while because it felt so off that he was off. That’s part of the film, and I am glad it is.

The film features Russ’ video messages, as well as your phone calls with him and his brother. Why was it important to include them in the film? What was the context behind Russ wanting to hang up and use another form of communication?

TM: Starting with the last question, he believed we could communicate without actually speaking, which I think is also a belief in some cultures and religions. It’s not as strange as it may seem, and there is some truth to it, which brings us back to your question about friendship: there is a way of communicating without communicating verbally. So when he said he didn’t want to hear my voice on the phone, I think he felt weirded out by it. He didn’t recognise it, as he had a different perception of it. It could have been about control—he needed to control how I and others spoke to him to feel safe. I think it’s interesting to consider why people do things when they lose control and try to regain it to feel safe, while also needing to find love in other ways. This form of “communication” also placed me in a very powerful role in the relationship, which felt daunting. I felt like I must have meant a lot to him; otherwise, I wouldn’t be in his head.

As for Russ’ video messages, they were him talking to me, but also role-playing. I think this was a period of his life when he communicated through a computer (I believe he used Vimeo, YouTube, or video messages) before he began the mind-to-mind thing. It was a step toward that. What’s interesting is that he was communicating with me, but also with himself, in a way. I used the phone calls in the film, as that was the material I had at the time because I couldn’t reach him. He didn’t answer my calls since he was out driving. So instead of filming him, I recorded my attempts to reach him and our brief phone interactions. The same went for his brother—it was difficult to meet with him. I am glad I managed to reach out to him, even though Russ said he didn’t want to talk about his brother or have me contact him. But I think we sort of had to do that.

The footage is shot in Los Angeles, “the heart of Hollywood’s dream machine.” The scenes featuring its streets play a vital role in crafting the film’s atmosphere, blending reality with imagination. Could you single out particular cinematic references or sources of inspiration that guided you in this process?

TM: I can think of a lot of films touching on the theme of Hollywood or the film machinery in LA, like, for example, Robert Altman’s work. Later during editing, I’d sometimes think, “Oh, this reminds me of…”. But I didn’t think of these references when creating my material. When I filmed, I followed my own language and visual interests.

Russ embodies Hollywood—its flip side. To me, he is a natural-born star. His sparse apartment is not depressing. It feels like a set, one you haven’t seen before, something uniquely his. Everything is there. The donut shop and taco restaurant by his house—they are clichés, but they are also part of his reality. Those are the places he goes to, as they are just around the corner. So in a way, Hollywood, Los Angeles, is like its own reality and its own film. You recognise so much, but when you are there, it’s just what it is. And films copy reality.

When I look at the street scenes in the film, they evoke a state of mind, a mood, a journey. You move through the LA streets, and things pop up, distract you, lure you in, catch your attention. There are so many people out. I love driving through LA and seeing these shifting street views. I filmed the cinemas from outside when Russ was nowhere to be found, and I was calling him from the car. To me, the cinemas feel like escape boxes. They are such a big part of the LA street scene, yet they are slowly dying. I had this sense that Russ was slowly deteriorating, just like the cinemas, which are being turned into something else—almost like relics of another time.

I’ve made films in LA before. I’ve filmed with the LAPD, stand-up comedians, a singer, two magicians, and sci-fi enthusiasts. I guess I could say I am interested in entertainment intertwined with personal stories. To me, it’s about exploring loneliness—or how one fills that loneliness, making life interesting enough so they don’t have to feel so much sadness. So it’s about the psychosocial sphere, and what goes on in one’s mind.

The film alternates between footage from different points in time, shifting between reality, imagination, and fantasy. Why was it important to include the behind-the-scenes footage as and his monologue scenes in crafting a cinematic portrait of him?

TM: I didn’t intend to create a cinematic portrait of him; I think it’s a film about us and the camera. That’s why it made sense to include these moments. I wouldn’t call it behind-the-scenes or monologues—that’s just what we did. I just filmed whatever I could get. Sometimes that included me. I’d leave the camera running for a while because I liked the awkwardness and because I didn’t know what was going to happen. I was working with a real human being—he wasn’t a professional actor, and I wasn’t a professional director at the time. It was more about experimenting and trying things out in front of the camera.

It wasn’t until I started putting the film together that I realised: “Oh, this is funny, that is awkward, touching, or all at once.” It was important for me not to appear as a “good person.” I am frustrated, real, unsure, yelling at him, and he talks back. It’s about capturing all the pieces you experience in a real friendship: vulnerability, anger, sadness, or fun. He had to show it the most, but I am glad my own moments are in there too. I am not an innocent bystander. I love him, but love is complicated. It’s an unusual friendship—I allowed him to project things onto me, but I could get angry or frustrated. I was also taking part of his life and putting it on display. Control was something we gave each other—sometimes I was in control, sometimes he was. Sometimes I was the actor, sometimes he was the director, and the camera was just there.

The project spanned 20 years. And at what point did you realise that you needed to stop filming?

TM: I filmed for 20 years, and I hadn’t planned to keep going because 20 years felt like enough. But that also happened to coincide with his decline. He did eventually get better, but it was concerning that he had become so thin. I still don’t know exactly what it was. I guess you can get sick from loneliness, from turning inward too much. Perhaps it was a mix of loneliness and poor nutrition. So I felt he needed to be left alone for a while, and that I could be more of a friend than someone filming him.

The film traces a man’s state as he increasingly becomes consumed by his own imagination and loneliness. Could you talk about your editing process in conveying the complexity of this emotional journey?

TM: I approached it by ensuring he doesn’t come across as a sad, tragic character, and I am not a saviour. He is not a victim, and I am not using him. It was really important not to fall into those clichés. Like I said in the beginning, I looked up to him for being so decisive and clear about what he liked, about not adjusting—but that can also become a trap. So I approached the material by staying true to reality, or at least to what happened. I didn’t lie while filming it, so why would I try to do that in the editing process? For example, I wanted to keep the long takes because that’s what we did—we filmed in the staircase, arguing. I tried to have an honest approach to both our friendship and the filming. But of course, we had to make decisions in the edit, and sometimes it was tricky because I didn’t want to treat it like a documentary, though it could be labelled that way. For me, it’s more of a genre that doesn’t really exist, yet is very true to reality.