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As its title suggests, with It’s Not Me, Carax creates his fullest and most complex meditation on authorship... Despite its intellectual rigor, It’s Not Me brims with humour and humility... the journey provides an unvarnished window into the filmmaker’s complex worldview.

The film proves to be both audacious and slyly entertaining, a delightful distillation of this iconoclastic filmmaker’s aesthetic that’s of benefit to anyone who feels enriched by cinema’s more oblique explorations.

With “It’s Not Me,” Carax confronts the aberration of celebrity (even art-house celebrity) by means of a cinematic self-creation that’s both a matter of sincere reticence and an audaciously assertive work of art.

The extent to which “It’s Not Me” will resonate with a particular viewer likely depends on how worthy of examination they deem Carax’s psyche, but there’s no denying that it’s fueled by the singular vision of an artist who refuses to let his audience off easy.

[I]t’s also hard not to feel like “It’s Not Me” is the doodling of a great auteur with too many unrealized ideas. It’s the type of work that one might find as a bonus feature of a Criterion edition, more interesting as ancillary than primary material.

Love poem, restless dream, troubled history, alchemist’s scrapbook — Leos Carax’s “It’s Not Me” is pure cinema as it dances through its dense 42 minutes.

Carax is not a visual essayist commenting and reflecting on the state of the chaotic world we live in -- well, maybe only a little bit, but not in Godard's sense. The film is all about him. And it's beautiful and glorious... It's Not Me is the best kind of cinematic self-portrait you could wish for.

Perhaps you need to be a Carax fan to watch this, and for me – as precisely this kind of viewer – this short film has all of Carax’s wit and whimsy, his distinctive streak of the grand and even the grandiose, his glam-rock self-dramatisation (there’s a big role for the work of David Bowie), his gloomy despairing rage at the state of the world in the 20th and 21st centuries and his concurrent streak of personal melancholy.

This is not his “final warning” like Godard, yet it is an overall alarm told through his dream-like collage about the past in all its nostalgic and haunting glory and the troubled now.

For many viewers, It’s Not Me would constitute an homage, mimicking Godard’s own experimental forms of address. The truth is that, beyond the “high art” of essay films shown at Cannes Premiere or other big festivals, there exists an ecosystem that’s far more proficient and frankly soulful than Carax’s (or some of Godard’s for that matter).

But as Carax looks back at his career, “It’s Not Me” offers little by way of some new or enlightened perspective on his otherwise fascinating filmography. Carax himself is, in many ways, a construct — his professional moniker is an anagram of his legal name, Alex Oscar — but this cinematic deconstruction of himself doesn’t go nearly far enough.

People unfamiliar with Carax’s oeuvre will likely be lost here, while fans and cinephiles will find a hearty meal to feast on. It’s Not Me is chock-full of references and influences, from F.W. Murnau to Jean Vigo to Godard himself, whose trembling voice is heard on a voice message he once left the director.