Even in its first few minutes, Leo Carax’s Holy Motors feels hellbent on perplexing its audience, like some J.L. Godard classic on a particularly nightmarish acid trip.

The film opens on Carax himself, suddenly woken from his sleep by a muted clangor emanating from somewhere beyond his bedroom walls. After cooly slipping on his shades and putting out a neglected bedside cigarette, his middle finger morphs into a drill, unlocking a secret door that opens into a movie theater balcony. Lights flash, seagulls sound from overhead, and, most notably, the theater’s entire audience is asleep, save for an ominous black dog and a nude child roaming the aisles.

The rest of Holy Motors doesn’t get any easier to follow. Denis Lavant plays Mr. Oscar, a performance artist of sorts whose job consists of traveling across Paris via limo to fulfill his “appointments” for the day, each of which sees him adopting some new and eccentric persona. He plays, at different times:

- An elderly female beggar.

- A motion-capture suit actor.

- An impish, sewer-dwelling man who kidnaps a supermodel from a graveyard photoshoot (my favorite scene).

- A street thug who murders a man identical to him.

- A concerned father.

- A former lover of Kylie Minogue, although it's implied that this might not actually be one of his “appointments.”

I don’t feel bad about spoiling any of this because - as you’ll find out - Holy Motors doesn’t follow any specific storyline, nor does it depend on plot to get its points across. None of the actions of Mr. Oscar’s characters can be connected in any ways, try as you might. Holy Motors is more about the overall visual experience and emotions conjured by each of these characters. It’s a scattered joyride, a cinematic ode to the reinvention of self.

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Holy Motors is this week’s Friday Night Flick. What I mentioned in the previous paragraph is only my interpretation of the film; maybe it’s all some bizarre statement about the current state of cinema, a jab at the cowardice and lack of imagination inherent in most modern filmmakers. Or is it something more personal, maybe a retelling of some lysergically-induced dream Carax had at some point? It certainly feels that way.

Watch Holy Motors and let me know what you think. —Jackson Todd

jackson@inherentbummer.com