Somewhere between modern culture’s attraction with depressing headlines and street chuggers’ creative attempts to catch averted eyes, a limit is reached to which anybody can devote themselves to a particular cause. With so many social transgressions it’s forgivable to let them wash away in a wave of apathy. Leos Carax’s sublime film raises pertinent questions about the state of humanity conveyed through the seductive warmth of liquid dark chocolate.

The film shadows irregular performer Monsieur Oscar (Denis Lavant) for a day as he’s chauffeured across Paris from one (very) peculiar acting appointment to the next. We witness a string of entrancing scenes ranging from trivial to the abnormal, but each one packed with intrigue.

The intense energy of Lavant’s first snail’s-paced stagger across screen is typical of the hypnotic quality that oozes from each persona he adopts. The individual mannerisms and expressions that seep from his characters ensure the lingering close-up shots of his rippling wrinkles are equally as captivating as high tempo moments. Complementing Lavant’s irresistible performance is Carax’s smooth, unassuming camera work which delicately unravels his surreal narrative, rather than forcing it upon us.

Combining long, slow-pan and near silent shots (reminiscent of the early Cahiers du cinéma directors) with a fragmented and frequently outlandish plot results in something akin to a Luis Buñuel farce directed by David Lynch. While Carax’s heavily stylised vignettes submit a visual mêlée of metaphors (broken manikins, rich man begging, fornicating monsters), the actual soundtrack is used reservedly to heighten emotional moments. Carax deftly blends these strangely mesmeric elements into an intoxicating paradox of hideous elegance.

Carax works hard not to conform to genre, instead offering a proliferation of labels (romance, family, crime etc.) – a reminder of the intricate diversity in our lives. And this is Carax’s point. Holy Motors is a dissection of what defines a person. In the cogitative dressing/undressing scenes, Oscar seems to mull over the disheartening prospect of mirroring the kind of voyeuristic people who employ him. This theme is emphasised in Carax’s most shocking character, Merde: an abrasive, sewer-dwelling, hermit first seen in Tokyo!. He is a reinterpretation of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde via Jean Renoir’s Dr. Cordelier. It’s through Kylie Minogue’s existential warbling that Carax asks his most pertinent question: “Who were we?” The question provokes a feeling of shame. By using a single actor to multirole, Carax seems to be suggesting that there are elements of his melancholic register in all of us, embedded in the very roles we play in society. Carax is asking us to examine all the different aspects of our lives and query whether we are satisfied with the results.