The disappearance of Gris-Gris doesn't just upset Chloe; it punctures her cocoon-like routine, which has narrowed her world to a coterie of self-obsessed hipsters and the confines of her apartment. As she ventures into the streets searching for the cat, she hooks up with a series of eccentric, desperately lonely people, most of them residents of a neighborhood tagged for demolition. They alone understand how much a constant companion--a constant anything--means to a solitary person.

Chloe's walks through the city form a picaresque adventure, and with its improvised feel, vibrant dance music, and bold colors, When the Cat's Away has an offhand, feathery charm, as if neither Chloe nor Klapisch were quite sure whom she'd meet around the next corner. But the movie isn't a trifle. Klapisch's Paris is ruled by the tyranny of the new--the radio hints at political upheaval, old apartment buildings are being leveled for modern high-rises, and many of the marginalized people Chloe meets are being forced out of their homes. Displacement and missed connections are the movie's central motifs. (Notice how many people are rebuffed when they try to steal kisses, or how many characters have been served eviction notices.) The movie is held together, ironically enough, by its many uprooted, yearning, disconnected souls, who give this comic whirligig a center of sadness.