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I knew of the director of this film (Sean Dunne) from his film American Juggalo, which a depressingly frank observation on those at an ICP gathering. It was a film that was strong in the way that it didn't judge or narrate but just let the people speak for themselves. The approach is the same here as a small crew head onto the parking lots and public spaces of Florida to meet Floridians hanging around.

I've not been to Florida, but don't really have any desire to do so – not least because if there is a 'crazy thing happened' or 'hapless criminal' story in the news, it often seems to be from Florida. This film seems to have an eye for characters who fit that sort of mold, but it doesn't set out to make a joke of them or mock them for being oddballs (which, frankly, they all are). Instead it treats them with a dignity that they probably don't wholly deserve – an approach that makes the film more engaging as a result. It is also tragic though, and many of those featured certainly have substance abuse issues or mental health problems; so it is troubling to watch them potter away from camera muttering to themselves.

Technically the film is not particularly polished. This is partly understandable given the way it was made, but it does still have a good look to it. The presence of the boom in the shot is so consistent that some wag created an IMDb credit for it (although the pendant in me notes that it should be 'uncredited'). This is a little off putting, but it is the heart of the film which makes it worth seeing, and it is an engaging, depressing, and interesting experience.

Florida Man (2015) To call this a "love letter to the weird and wonderful people of Florida" (as one writer declared) is more like mistaking a book club for yard sale of illegal firearms. Yet there's some charm and color, as most of the intoxicated--or slowly becoming intoxicated-participants are funny and wear bright, tent-size t-shirts and shorts on their emaciated forms, plus bulbous sneakers. This transforms most of the local Florida characters from wobbly old men into little boys, and most look like they've never seen the inside of a golf course except one to pass out on that they've trespassed across. Unlike the below-zero-budget documentary "First Call", there's only a few female companions onscreen. One of the funniest attempts at avant grade technique is the film-maker's insistence on shooting extreme close-ups of his subjects, some lasting for 15 seconds, saying nothing. This wierdo collection of live mug-shots almost functions as its own artistic sobriety test.