Can a movie possibly be great when it’s absolutely not good? It’s a question that could be rolling around in your mind when the closing credits finally hit on Francis Ford Coppola long-gestating new feature Megalopolis, but it surely won’t be alone. Others will regard the curious nature in which the story unfolds, with precious little in the way of narrative connective tissue, entire plotlines abandoned midstream without a crumb of explanation. More will arise when considering the oddity of the cast that’s been assembled to bring Coppola’s dream project to life, or the futuristic bent of its visual stylings that doesn’t feel timeless so much as existing outside of time altogether. But the stickiest of all, aside from how to appraise such a ramshackle creation of unfettered inspiration and egomania, is what, exactly, made this the project that the legendary director couldn’t quit. Having personally invested a reported 120 million dollars of his own money into the film’s production, the 85-year-old auteur’s latest is also more than likely his last. What made this the swan song he was so determined to sing?

It certainly doesn’t lack ambition, envisioning a futuristic metropolis draped in golden hues and on the verge of collapsing under the weight of complacency, with only one visionary mind capable of shepherding it into the future. The city is called New Rome, and the thought leader who seeks its redemption is Cesar Catilina (Adam Driver), a free-thinking architect fresh off of winning the Nobel Prize for creating a brand new building material known as megalon. Despite a genius that’s evident to all who enter his orbit, Catalina’s boundary-breaking notions meet pushback from a slew of bad actors, including contemptuous mayor Franklyn Cicero (Giancarlo Esposito). The tension between the two only escalates when Cesar starts romancing Cicero’s daughter, Julia (Nathalie Emmanuel), while falling headlong into a losing battle with alcoholism. Or does our guy just like to take the edge off every once in a while? As with everything else in Megalopolis, it’s kind of hard to tell.

While distracting and somewhat troubling, the movie’s reticence to clearly define Catalina’s struggles with substance abuse is by no means its most damning bit of storytelling elision. That distinction belongs to the nature of Cesar’s brilliance, and, more to the point, his specific reclamation blueprint for the city. Fluent in the buzz words and hollow speechifying that define our modern political discourse, Catalina is portrayed with all the visual signifiers that convinced us of J. Robert Oppenheimer and John Nash’s prodigious intellect, but his plans for societal betterment remain entirely obtuse. His would-be stirring monologues sound like dorm room proselytizing, complete with a breathless wonder about legacy and change, wholly bereft of anything actionable. You get the feeling he has a kindred spirit behind the camera.

There’s no mistaking Cesar as anything other than an avatar for Coppola, too busy dreaming of a brighter tomorrow to properly communicate with the proletariat he’s so desperate to save from themselves. Those sleepy simpletons are only good for crowd shots here, as Megalopolis exclusively finds interest in the governing and wealthy classes, so intent on building the edifice that it forgets those it will house. A product of pure creative carte blanche, the movie’s events seem to mirror those that must have taken place behind the scenes, with no one on hand brave enough to offer Coppola the occasional, kindly ‘no.’ It calls to mind the messy, haphazard construction of fellow AARP member Clint Eastwood’s work of late, though the man with no name’s flick’s are too contained to include a satellite crashing toward the earth, let alone forget it entirely. This is, unfortunately, not the only area where the two old lions warrant comparison.

Coppola’s vision of utopia is one wherein all peoples and beliefs are welcome, the kind of idealism that only sounds good before further interrogation. The across-the-aisle symbolism of casting Jon Voight is fairplay, and one could mount a case in support of Dustin Hoffman’s presence, but that level of charity should not be extended to Shia LaBeouf. Appearing here as a twisted amalgamation of Donald Trump and his cadre of failsons despite recent allegations of physical and sexual assault, LaBeouf’s proported crimes are not ideological, and no manifestation of paradise should make space for them. Lumping them in with a plea for the left and the right to come closer together is lazy at best, though the film’s circumscribed view of women in general would suggest something more nefarious at hand. Only here to support, nag, or outright antagonize, Megalopolis’ female characters are uniformly underwritten, impacting the story through motherhood, scheming, or somewhere inbetween. Aubrey Plaza makes the most of her part as a conniving media member, but it’s telling that the price she ultimately pays for her crimes supersedes that of her male counterparts.

There’s no hyperbole in calling Megalopolis a disaster, just as there’s no denying the allure of what’s buried in all that rubble. The film’s visual audacity, exemplified by changing aspect ratios, myriad lensing techniques, and an omnipresent use of green screen, have a beauty that runs countercurrent to good taste. It almost dares you to call it cheesy, and while many will graciously acquiesce, there’s something bracing in watching a movie that’s so determined to build its own optical language. Certain images, like a teenaged songstress who multiplies in mid air, or a sun-kissed rooftop on which Driver ruminates amid steel bars that hang diligently in place, have a staying power that’s rarely seen in effects-driven pictures. It’s hard to say what all this innovation amounts to in the present moment, but just like his protagonist, Coppola’s attention isn’t trained on the now.

Directing The Godfather and Apocalypse Now is more than enough to earn your passion project, and watching Coppola pursue his own cinematic bliss without the barriers of proper judgment is a spectacle in its own right. His aesthetic here hews closely to that of Baz Lurhmann, but where the Moulin Rouge! helmer’s penchant for bombast and artifice is constantly leaning into the past, Megalopolis feels driven by discovery. Expeditions of this nature are often met with derision, and this one does more than enough to court its own ridicule while charting a course beyond what’s presently in view. Like a 14th century explorer set on uncovering a new world, Coppola is powered by optimism and self-assurance, presenting a missive from some imagined future that’s just as likely to harm as it is to heal. There’s greatness in pursuits of just gander; just don’t let anyone tell you it’s good as well.