When I first wrote about A Complete History of My Sexual Failures, based solely on the film’s Sundance catalog synopsis, I pegged it as “like Sherman’s March, but British, and 1/3 as long, and seemingly not at all concerned with vague parallels to 19th century history!” Having seen the film with an extremely enthusiastic press corps, I can confirm that Chris Waitt’s debut feature *is* a little like Sherman’s March, but the ancestral lineage of this undeniable crowd-pleaser is more complicated than I could have guessed. At its best, this heavily constructed slice of auto-videography is a lot like a Nick Broomfield remake of Four Eyed Monsters, except with a budget for car commercial cast-off source cues and an extremely problematic relationship with the kind of fearless personal honesty that Arin Crumley and Susan Buice have turned into a brand.

The hapless 30-something director, with his ever-present stubble, saggy ripped jeans and dishwater moptop, is a dead ringer for Kurt Cobain circa 1994 (I would have pegged this as “retro” affectation, if every other character on screen hadn’t made a derisive comment about the director/star’s lack of grooming acumen and style). Speaking directly to the camera from a home office resembling a teenager’s bedroom, Waitt explains that, as his girlfriend of three weeks has just dumped him, he’s decided to track down as many former flames as possible and interview each, in order to figure out what he’s been doing wrong and hopefully figure out how to find true love/avoid future dumpings.

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