Luukkainen himself is a dourly unfunny and uncharismatic presence. As punchable as Morgan Spurlock can be, he at least puts some zip into proceedings, but when he isn't moaning he's sniggering at his own self-made predicament. Petri spends large expanse of his film moping around, whilst occasionally laughing at the moustache he's accidentally grown (that, by the way, is the comic high point of the film). Elsewhere, a dramatic highpoint involves his new girlfriend's broken fridge - but we won't spoil the twist. My Stuff has no philosophical underpinning; it's not an attack on consumerism or a Walden-like retreat from the world, but rather an indulgent holiday into the self. Luukkainen doesn't attempt to get anything as coherent or interesting as a critique together, settling for a barely interesting conclusion that "Things aren't everything".