Directed by Miranda July. Starring Hamish Linklater, Miranda July, David Warshofsky, Isabella Acres 15A cert, lim release, 90 min

TO SAY THE films of Miranda July stimulate furious controversy is to overstate the performance artist’s significance. After all, most people haven’t heard of the woman. But, for observers of American indie cinema she remains a bracingly divisive personality. You either think she’s a quiet genius or a sickeningly twee menace.

Look here. This writer is as fond of cats as any chap. But the notion of such a beast narrating a film – with July's own twittering voice, at that – is enough to send even the most enthusiastic animal lover rushing to the lavatory with his or her hand over a dampening mouth. And the poor wee lamb has a bandaged foot. Isn't there a remake of Straw Dogson somewhere else in town?

The couple (July and Hamish Linklater) at the heart of this infuriating film have adopted the weakening cat from a sanctuary. Acting as a thumping metaphor for their troubled relationship, the beast looks set to die at some point in the next few months. While it issues feline aphorisms from the comfort of its sick bed, the heroes – stupid LA hipsters in stupid hipster clothes – progress through a series of vaguely surrealistic adventures. She has an affair with a man who makes promotional signs. He talks to the moon. She wraps herself up in a giant T-shirt.

Many decent film-makers get by on whimsy. But few display the monumental – if quietly expressed – arrogance of July. The film is swollen with undeserved affection for its nauseatingly self-absorbed characters and their supposed alternative lifestyle. It demands that we wait while they delay every pointless conversation with artful pauses. It believes that off-the-peg oddness is an end in itself.

Can you hear me from the bathroom? Oh God, I think I’m going to hurl again.