Holy Motors feels like a film about film itself, or maybe about what’s left of it. Léos Carax immerses us in a world where the boundaries between performance and reality are blurred. Mr. Oscar (played by Denis Lavant) moves from one “appointment” to another, assuming new identities in each, yet there’s no visible audience or camera to justify his transformations. That absence makes the performances feel strangely hollow, as if he’s acting purely because he has to – a slave to the “invisible machines” Carax mentions in his interview.
Carax’s distrust of digital technology seems to haunt every scene. The old “visible machines” of cinema (cameras, projectors, cars) are fading, replaced by something more virtual, impersonal. Even the limo, which carries Oscar between his appointments, becomes a symbol of this transition: a kind of impossible, in-between space where he prepares to become someone else. It’s home, but not in the comforting sense. It’s more like a place of regression or exhaustion after too many lives lived.

As an experimental film, Holy Motors rejects conventional storytelling. It doesn’t explain itself. Instead, it drifts through moods and genres (e.g., tragedy, absurdity, musical, horror) like flipping through channels on TV. The accordion interlude midway through feels like the only true burst of life. It’s spontaneous and rhythmic, feels almost rebellious against the film’s growing artificiality.

Is Mr. Oscar an actor, or just a person conditioned by an over-mediated world? How does the film comment on our relationship to technology and authenticity? If the limo is “home,” what does that say about the way we live between screens, constantly switching roles?


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