Eerie, beguiling, and utterly inexplicable, H. is certainly a unique cinematic experience. Normal filmic signposts are withheld in favor of inscrutable images that feel both banal and totemic: a horse meandering in the woods, perfectly geometric cloud formations, water leaking under a fridge. Whether this story of two women beset by odd forces adds up to anything meaningful is unclear, and ultimately H. feels like a benign betrayal of the compact between filmmaker and audience, where each thing we see and hear is supposed to lend itself to some whole. Is this a good or bad thing, aesthetically speaking? I don't really know, but this mix of deadpan realism punctuated by bursts of matter-of-fact weirdness surely casts a spell.