If you wanted to make the case that Bresson had a really dry and withering sense of humour I suspect this would be the first port of call (a thesis compounded later by the opening of Lancelot). It’s quite a funny story to start with (the slowburn inevitability of his eventual cucking), and the film does appear to gently mock our effete hero with all his benignly longing stares at all the hot chicks in the street, psychologically self-authorised by the fact that he’s a sensitive artist.
No central character.
No defined purpose for side characters.
No three acts.
No internal references.
No political polemical voice.
One of the best films ever made.