Russian Dolls

Russian Dolls

Russian Dolls

1 star

Something must have been lost in translation. Maybe the Russian definition of “crazy” is different from Americans’.

In the premiere of this peek into life among Russian immigrants in Brighton Beach, Marina goes shopping and mopes about her mother-in-law belly-dancing in the local grandmother pageant. Diana mopes about being 23 and dating a Spanish guy who owns a Maserati but can’t give her Russian babies: “My mom really wants to be a grandma. Time’s running out!”

Younger Russian babes hang out at the local bathhouse in bikinis, while local guys mope about their love lives: “Russian women love to flirt, but they never give up the goods … Sometimes they just want the free dinner.”

And sometimes they just want to be reality-TV stars without giving up the goods — like being, I dunno, flaky, or fiery, or eccentric, or extravagant, or even dressing up (or down) for the part.

The drama here consists of Diana breaking up with her Maserati dude and telling the camera: “I feel bad. He’s a really nice guy. But that’s the way the cookie crumbles.” C’mon — not even some colorful Russian aphorism?

So what’s the point? These folks could be Peruvian or Lebanese for all the ethnic flavor — unless you count Diana’s throwaway borscht-making lesson with Mom. “Russian Dolls” is so busily edited — is any shot longer than three seconds? — that there’s no flavor of any kind. It’s like one of those old ransom notes with the words spelled out in letters cut from newspaper headlines to keep the sender anonymous.

If nothing else, this show might make us more appreciative of all the effort those “Jersey Shore” folks put into their portrayals. Who knew they had such a work ethic? 

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