The Caterpillar sings a sultry, meandering tune about transformation. As Alice takes a hit, the screen splits into three panels: in one, she’s a nun; in another, a rock groupie; in the third, a weeping bride. The harmonies are dissonant. The word “explicit” flashes.

He drops a tiny silver key. Alice picks it up. He turns, eyes black pools in the smoggy sunlight.

“Who… are… you?” she asks, each word a smoky bubble.

(The FLAiR DVD rip includes a director’s commentary track where the filmmaker, “Candy P. Lane,” admits the entire thing was shot on stolen film stock and that the Caterpillar’s hookah was a repurposed fire extinguisher.)

The neon is dead under the hazy L.A. sun. ALICE (19, innocent but jaded, wearing a crocheted tube top and frayed bell-bottoms) sits by a fountain, sketching a wilting daisy in a spiral notebook. She’s bored. The summer of love is a decade old; now it’s just litter and bad deals.

She drops the key. It clatters on the floor.

“Late,” he purrs. “I’m terribly, terribly late.”