The nature of interpersonal relationships in this second decade of the 21st century have changed significantly from those of the great romantic chamber piece films like Annie Hall or Before Sunrise. Though it’s now a rather boring truism that the internet has changed the way we interact with one another, it seems that non-science-fiction films are just beginning to dig into what this means; one of the first real stand-out attempts to capture this shift is 2013’s Her, in which a lonely man falls for the sexy-voiced operating system in his computer. We can now add 10,000 km to the list of films exploring what it means to be together but separate, attached, at times, only by an internet connection.

The film opens with a nearly 23-minute long single take, just one of the technical feats that slide by nearly unnoticed for the way in which they embody existence in today’s mediated world. How is this accomplished? Within that single take, we watch protagonists Alex (Natalia Tena) and Sergi (David Verdaguer) make love; discuss potential baby names; go about their morning routine; learn that Alex has been offered a year-long, fully-funded artist residency in Los Angeles (we come to learn that their apartment is in Barcelona); celebrate; argue; and make-up.

Within this first sequence, we witness shifts from explicit, realistic sex, to the ordinary movements of their lives, to an intense near-break-up-inducing disagreement – and the very condensation of events rings true to the pacing of “love” as it is practiced and lived today.

We also learn a great deal about our protagonists, and this is perhaps the more difficult aspect of consuming ourselves on the big screen: they’re both incredibly close/intimate and yet disconnected, and they’re off-puttingly narcissistic. This along with the intimate focus, fairly naturalistic dialogue, and use of webcams places 10,000 km within the orbit of the mumblecore subgenre, which, as in films like Hannah Takes the Stairs, have never shied away from paying close attention to unpleasant people living their selfish lives.

Sergi, in particular, comes off throughout the film like a petulant child, to Alex’s driven, open-minded approach to their situation – in keeping with the increasingly widespread trend in film in general of magical women helping sad men grow up.

Of course, no relationship could continue unscathed online for an entire year apart, and though Sergi and Alex are actually far better at articulating their feelings via Skype, the problems crop up, spiral, and explode fairly quickly. Things truly begin to escalate after a scene in which Sergi looks at Alex’s Facebook page, following a rather harmless photo’s tag to another man’s page, then posting a sad song on Alex’s newsfeed – a behavior pattern that must be achingly, embarrassingly familiar to anyone in a relationship that began after 2004.

And this is perhaps the film’s greatest draw and success: representing back to us the ways in which space, cameras, and social media define our lives in such a way that we can’t turn away from the film, we need to see whether what was once a couple on the verge of becoming a trio can survive.

Compulsively watchable and at times very sexy, 10,000 km is overall an interesting and promising debut from first-time feature director Carlos Marques-Marcet. Whether or not you found the protagonists as unappealing as I did, the film as a whole will definitely leave you reflecting on your own relationships and the way they weather the distances imposed by space and the internet’s noise.