Jonah Bekhor and Zach Math's film is like the VICE documentary that got away. Most of it chronicles Hjartarson as he strives for the final frontier: a Homo sapiens specimen to complete his collection. Describing his search for a human male donor without loosing an avalanche of bawdy puns is going to prove hard -- rather, difficult -- but here goes. The top candidates are a local geriatric Casanova and a creepy American who looks like the cowboy from those diabetes ads. The requirements? Just a notarized signature and proof that the genitalia in question exceeds the "legal length." That'd be five inches, and yes, according to an archaic ordinance, anything shorter is court-legitimized means for divorce in Iceland.
The whole thing (not a pun) is rather grisly and obscene, as any story about anything dismembered (that one is a pun) might be. Still, as Hjartarson meanders along a rocky Icelandic coastline or drives through a batshit Icelandic blizzard and frets about being able to accomplish his goal before he dies -- he's found out he has a blood clot and maybe not much time left -- it suddenly becomes a sincere tale about mortality and leaving something behind to commemorate your life's work, even if what you want to leave behind is a room full of penises.