I’m almost certain that Eden—a fictional account of the rise and fall of a Parisian house DJ named Paul (his time is the 1990s and the ’00s)—will make my top five list for the year’s best films.

Why? For one, the way the movie weaves music and narrative, beats and story, sounds and images, dancing and fucking, singing and talking, soundtrack and cinematography is so effortless (no seams on the transitions) that one wonders if it is better to watch Eden in a discotheque or in a movie theater. I’m more inclined to the former, the dance floor.

I just want to watch, listen, and get down to Eden, which, thankfully, is long and meanders like a cloud. And in the way you do not ask where a cloud is going or where it is coming from—a cloud is just a cloud—you must not ask where Eden is going, or why you are watching this young man DJ in this scene, then jump in a swimming pool in the next, then kiss a pretty woman in the back of cab, then do some blow, then DJ again at the end of a long night. There is no why to it. There only is an is—which is youth, melancholy, and inspiration.