You’d be forgiven for thinking Daft Punk were chancers; a duo so anonymous (thanks to their robot-head masks) that rumours circulated that they didn’t even turn up to their own festival appearances last year. Fans danced to a pre-mixed CD, ever more blurring the line between Thomas Bangalter and Guy-Manuel de Homem Christo’s art and, well, farce. There’s no such uncertainty with their 70-minute film, a work so earnestly conceived that you can’t help but be bowled over by it. It’s a wordless, often frustrating mini-epic, but sometimes you feel you might be in the presence of greatness. Our robot heroes search for satisfaction in California, visit a town where everyone looks the same and have prosthetic masks made (ingeniously modelled on Daft Punk’s actual faces), which melt off before they self-destruct in the desert. That’s it. Spliced in beautifully are tracks from a range of cult artists, including Linda Perhacs and the ever-underrated Todd Rundgren. If you can, catch this at a cinema, where the perfection of sound and visuals will impress the most. They may be the biggest dance act on the planet but, miraculously, Daft Punk have started a whole new area of operation for themselves, and it’s unlikely they’ll ever be blasé about it.