Holy Motors

Leos Carax’s Holy Motors is a funny, moving fantasy with a few stretches that need shortening. Its central pleasure is Denis Lavant, who takes on characters as different as a banker, a beggar and a father. Carax gives these performances separate episodes, allowing the film to change its habits whenever his leading man changes his identity. There is something generous about that willingness to start again, even if we occasionally wish the writer-director would spend less time on his latest idea.

Lavant gives each part a different physical demand, and the effort is visible even through the comedy. His banker and beggar belong to the same actor without seeming like demonstrations of the same trick. We felt tired on his behalf, because Lavant makes the business of continually becoming somebody else look like work. That weariness keeps the film close to ordinary experience: having another role to fulfil when we would prefer to stop for the day.

Caroline Champetier and Yves Cape’s cinematography is most persuasive when it lets us read that work in Lavant’s body. Our attention keeps returning to his posture and the way he occupies the frame. Florian Sanson’s production design helps the separate roles inhabit different surroundings, so the changes do not depend entirely on Lavant’s acting. We never have long to settle into these places, yet they have enough presence to make each departure feel like a disruption.

Nelly Quettier’s editing handles the changes of genre with an assurance that makes their abruptness enjoyable. We are asked to adjust quickly, and often the next episode is engaging before we have settled our questions about the last. Within the episodes, though, Carax can be slow to move on once we have understood the joke or situation. At 116 minutes, the film has room for detours, but a handful feel less rewarding the longer they continue.

Music provides the most welcome interruption. Neil Hannon’s contribution allows the film to be openly sad, without making us solve anything first. The accordion passage, with its noisy collective playing, made us grin: watching people do something together is enough. Such moments make Carax’s interest in performance feel affectionate, and give the film some warmth when its repeated changes might otherwise become tiring.

The women are less well served by the writing. Édith Scob, Eva Mendes and Kylie Minogue make their presence felt, yet none receives the freedom to keep changing that makes Lavant so absorbing. Carax is interested in the sadness of performance, but he gives his leading man much more room to express it than the people around him. That uneven attention limits how much we can care about these encounters beyond the leading man’s experience.

Carax uses the freedom of fantasy to move between kinds of film that usually keep their distance. The changes are often funny enough to enjoy without naming the references, and we would resist turning the evening into a test of film knowledge. A willingness to follow an actor matters more here than any preparation. Save it for a night when another change of direction sounds welcome.