I saw this film last night and I am still wondering about it. But that's a good thing. The film sort of follows one man around who I believe is a journalist. Emphasis on the "sort of." He constitutes a very thin thread of a plot and sort of provides a very loose unifying theme for the film.
The film begins with a conversation between a writer and his wife and the next 20 minutes could be a very fragmented conventional film. A lot of characters are introduced, a lot of talking is done, a lot of possible exposition occurs, there is some beautiful photography of Barcelona and an incredible scene of an orchestra playing in the streets. And finally, about 30 minutes into the film, when everything introduced so far comes together in one place and we think we are finally about to understand something the credit sequences roll.
After the credits are done we are treated to a surreal montage of scenes which are both confusing, beautiful and moving. I'm not sure yet if these scenes have some deeper meaning or if they are just there for the visual and emotional impact. Again the journalist provides a very loose thread appearing in conversations in between the meat of the movie which are these absurd yet deeply affecting scenes of seemingly random and absurd things.
The film almost seems like a meta-comment on itself. The scenes with dialog are mostly about the choice of a writer between writing for profit and writing for art and what responsibility he bears and what role he plays in society. Many of the interspersed, seemingly unrelated scenes feature music and people watching music being performed. While I have no interpretation of this film yet I can't help but think it is some sort of comment on art.
Regardless this film is incredible visually and emotionally. Definitely not for the fan of Hollywood films, or even independent films, or actually any film with any type of structured narrative. But if you let the film take you and suspend and expectation the reward is very worthwhile.
