The Hollywood star Mira, portrayed with striking nuance by Alicia Vikander, seeks a balance in her career between blockbuster franchise work and intimate auteur cinema. This tension births the Irma Vep project, a contemporary reimagining of the 1915 silent series The Vampires. Rather than ghouls, the story follows a ruthless gang of criminals who hold half of Paris in suspense. The emblem of this dangerous clan is Irma Vep, a sly thief-damsel in a sleek black suit whose power lies not in weaponry but in poise and catlike grace. Her influence helps shape an image that would later resonate as Catwoman’s iconic silhouette.
While filming unfolds, Mira sinks deeper into the role and reconnects with her fictional heroine. At the same time, the actress’s private life spills into view, as her ex-girlfriend Lori reappears to tempt the possibility of reconciliation. The production atmosphere grows fraught as collaborators drift toward personal collapse, including a director who battles depression and the creeping pressure of a project under a relentless microscope.
If cinema is a dream, the 2022 Irma Vep unfolds as a dream nested within another dream, situated squarely inside an overarching reverie. It remakes a show that is itself a remake of a story, a maze that invites confusion even as it rewards those who stay curious. The opening episodes plant a sense that the director, Assayas, may not have fully anticipated the direction his project would take, inviting audiences to question narrative certainty from the start.
The creator embraces a style reminiscent of a cinema that believes in the immediacy of life, aiming to heighten the viewer’s sense of presence. In the new era, the cinematic approach once attributed to Dziga Vertov feels less likely, yet the series preserves a viewer who remains alert, willing to dream with the screen. The Assayas mini-series sustains this challenge, guiding the audience through a layered experience that asks to be interpreted rather than simply watched.
Irma Vep blends metal and drama, presenting a lead actor who wrestles with dense material and reflections on filmmaking itself. The show probes how difficult it is to realize a strong project in contemporary times while offering a philosophical meditation on the relativity of existence. An ancient Taoist tale about Emperor Zhuang Zhou—dreaming he is a butterfly, or is a butterfly dreaming of being an emperor?—frames the core inquiry about identity and reality.
Similar inquiries permeate Irma Vep. Its design is deceptively simple, yet the narrative unfolds in multiple layers about creation and the creator. The character Rene Vidal, convincingly depicted by Vincent Macken in a state of vulnerable fragility, battles powerful antidepressants and faces a looming risk of letting the work slip away. In person, Mira encounters the self-proclaimed unhappy filmmaker who declares an aversion to cinema, a playful contradiction that propels the mission to finish this film. Mira slowly reunites with her fictional ally, echoing the dynamics seen in classic performances where a lead returns to the heart of the story while colleagues contend with their own earthly distractions.
The ensemble’s ambitions fail to sustain momentum, and the project’s promise seems at risk of dissolving in the middle of the journey. Could the series itself meet a fate similar to the one it depicts? Assayas does not rush. The eight-hour runtime unfolds with a deliberate, almost viscous cadence, moving at a pace that invites contemplation rather than rapid conclusion. The result is a mirage that lingers in the mind once the screen goes dark.
The old adage about overvaluing one’s own creation rings true, especially when working with a familiar format that may feel exhausted of novelty. Yet Assayas earns points through restraint, a keen eye for detail, and a willingness to let conversations breathe. The most compelling moments arrive when the characters simply talk, when dialogue and subtext carry weight beyond spectacle, and when the actors’ voices reveal truths that the plot cannot quite contain.
In the finale of the original Irma Vep, a director quietly re-edits his film and, against the odds, a kind of miracle emerges. Assayas, revisiting the same river, demonstrates a similar impulse to salvage what earlier work might have left unresolved. Even if a triumphant revelation does not arrive, the attempt to confront personal limits and to challenge one’s own methods remains a meaningful achievement.