Sylvio

A work of gentle whimsy and surprising pathos, Sylvio proposes a buddy-comedy scenario involving a most unlikely screen pair.

This charming lo-fi indie from actor-director Kentucker Audley and director Albert Birney is attuned to its own eccentric wavelength, equal parts absurd and poignant.

Bernardi is an actor of genius; his Janus-faced pantomime, as Sylvio struggles voicelessly for a place among human chatterboxes, channels the infinite grace of the great silent-film comedians.

Sylvio endures a classic journey toward making peace with his existence, and that's enough to make it worthwhile.

One of Sylvio's greatest strengths is the ever-present, though never fully verified sense that Birney and Audley are having a long laugh at their audience's expense.

Sylvio is perhaps the most absurd buddy comedy that's ever been made.

A tense amalgamation of lowbrow sensibilities and highbrow execution, which the anthropomorphic gorilla then beats into submission.

Sylvio's banal depictions of everyday loneliness through the diurnal tedium of an anthropomorphic animal brings to mind BoJack Horseman, but without the caustic navel-gazing and self-destruction or the mordant pop-culture musings.

The absurdist comedy Sylvio suffers from chronic low energy.

Sylvio has stray moments of beauty that border on the sublime. There's a yearning to the hairy guy's amazingly uneventful puppet shows, a dream of sophistication that transcends his animal brutishness.

No matter what, Sylvio gave me belly laughs and evocative feels. Thus far, it is my favorite film of the year. A most disturbing year, but still.

Rich with ingenious sight gags and clever, deadpan writing.