HOLY MOTORS may be the most French French film I’ve seen since the 1980s. I found I needed to watch it twice to really get hold of it. Afterwards, it haunts the mind: you can sit there and construct science-fictional or supernatural narratives around the thing, to pull it together. From some angles, it’s hard not to conceive of it as a film about cinema and actors. From another, it’s clearly a story of the surveillance society and the inexorable march of machinery towards the invisibly vigilant. (And perversely miraculous.) At four in the morning, it somehow seems obviously the third part to Wenders’ WINGS OF DESIRE and FARAWAY SO CLOSE, set in Paris after the end of Time and following the works of disintegrating angels.