Crustväska opens on two men standing at a platform and waiting for a train to arrive. As one schools the other on Swedish punk rock style, monologue gymnastics about the importance of the crustväska--better known perhaps as a fanny pack--and its relationship to finding cute women in a club tumble about in sentences of the absurd. Outside the silly candor of the conversation, nothing else much happens, and in this bold move, Kasulke sets his voice as tuned into its own unique blend of joyous storytelling irreverence.

With the reality television trend firmly grounded, everyday life stories and moments are easier than ever to access, and yet so often, these stories are told so sensationally or sentimentally that the art behind them is lost. In Kasulke's camera, however, the entertaining human element finds a happy marriage with ethnographic study. There's truly a feeling that the short time capsules a note about humanity in its levity and complexity.

If films are meant in some manner as echoes of cultural shifts, then Kasulke's done that with great success. That's not to say the aesthetic achievement is readily at hand to anyone. Amateur filmmakers attempt this model daily and fail outright. So, while seemingly simple, Crustväska is perhaps an exercise in the hardest type of artistic engagement, the reflection of the beautiful mundane of our lives.