There is nothing new under the sun, they say, and whatever you may be told, there is nothing actually that new about the supposed radical formalism of Mike Figgis' ostensibly experimental feature: its more obvious technique was hijacked by Nicholas Ray for his 1973 film We Can't Go Home Again. But while it's true that the British Figgis might be merely nudging the barricades rather than trampling them, it is fair to say that the majority of contemporary audiences are going to find Timecode, at least initially, an anarchic experience.

Centred on a bunch of media players swarming about the Red Mullet production offices (Figgis' own) in Hollywood, the film's conceit is to tell four stories simultaneously on a quartered screen. And indulging in lightweight digital technology to allow Figgis the luxury of single 93 minute takes.

There is Emma (Saffron Burrows) who we first encounter in therapy before following her to Red Mullet to confront philandering lover Alex (Stellan Skarsgard). Lauren (Jeanne Tripplehorn) insists on chauffeuring Rose (Salma Hayek) to an audition, convinced her lover is having an affair. Meanwhile cult director Lester Moore (Richard Edson) haunts Red Mullet desperately trying to cast his new movie.

Even though Timecode inevitably neglects to credit an editor in its credit crawl, the picture is far from chaotic. What might initially look like a storm of largely disparate information is craftily steered by its director riding the mixing desk. Our attention is directed but not dictated by sound; Timecode permits - even insists upon - a degree of autonomy, but remains, thank god, far from "interactive". We are free to wander towards separate instruments, but Figgis remains the conductor. (On DVD, presumably, we will be presented with all four audio tracks and no safety net.)

Talk of which does tend towards the technical. It's that kind of a virtuoso production: the moves were blocked and the script improvised over more than a dozen full-scale run-throughs. But the challenge it presents to its performers is, if anything, even more intriguing. Figgis' approach relies on his actors staying in character for the duration just in case the camera drifts their way. The burden - well-shouldered - falls on Burrows and Tripplehorn, who are seldom off-screen. The latter in particular, having bugged her girlfriend, effectively plays it as a sustained reaction shot, the like of which we really have never seen before. A large cast - also including Kyle MacLachlan, Xander Berkley, Glenne Headly, Holly Hunter and a seriously comic Julian Sands - are uniformly strong, and the score by Figgis and Anthony Marinelli, is smartly applied.

In the end though it's reassuring to know that the writer/director is not unaware of the post-modern art house cool his conceit inevitably exudes. As the film enters the home straight, Ana (Mia Maestro) arrives to pitch her new project: a feature to be shot in real time, split over four screens. "Montage has created a false reality," she insists. "Digital is demanding new expressions." Skarsgard cannot suppress his laughter. It sounds, he proclaims, like "the most pretentious crap I've ever heard."