Here are a few observations after having watched Atom Egoyan’s new movie, “Seven Veils.” Let’s begin with the leading actress, Amanda Seyfried.

With that streaming abundance of hair, resplendent set of eyes, and emphatically contoured jawline, she would be a good candidate for any filmmaker keen on making a film about the pre-Raphaelite painters or, rather, their models. Hairstylists would have to see to the reddening of those blond tresses, but, otherwise, Ms. Seyfried fits the bill. Casting agents can thank me later.

Second, a Canadian actor, Joey Klein, is some kind of smarmy in his role as the host of an arts podcast. Mr. Klein’s character can’t be on-screen for more than five minutes, but his oleaginous demeanor makes an impression. Not only are the questions posed intrusive and condescending, but the insinuating physicality of Mr. Klein’s performance raises its own set of red flags. Viewers will need more than a hot shower to recover from their brief encounter with this interviewer. Mr. Klein steals the movie.

Who is it that had to sit down and suffer his character’s ministrations? Jeanine (Ms. Seyfried), a 30-ish theater director tasked with remounting a production of Richard Strauss’s “Salome.” The version of the opera in which she has been placed in charge was configured by a former mentor named Charles. Among the latter’s dying wishes was that the revival mounted by the Canadian Opera Company be placed in Jeanine’s hands.

Why would she be hired? Jeanine’s experience is limited and a questionable fit for a major venue. Among the questions posed on the arts podcast is one pertaining to the nature of Jeanine’s relationship with the original impresario. She refuses to answer, but we’ve already intuited that their association was close and likely sexual. That the opera’s chief executive officer is Charles’s widow adds a strain of discomfort to the proceedings.

Tensions are already high: Staging an opera is a complicated business. Then there’s all the personal stuff amongst its players. Jeanine is away from home and the separation in distance between herself and husband Paul (Mark O’Brien) coincides with a rift in their marriage. Paul is taking care of their young daughter as well as Jeanine’s mother, who is suffering from dementia. He’s also bedding down the full-time caregiver, Dimitra (Maia Jae Bastidas), on the sly. Jeanine is quick to intuit as much; so are we.

In the meantime, prop-master Clea (Rebecca Liddiard) is readying the decapitated head of John the Baptist for “Salome.” Her girlfriend, Rachel (Vinessa Antoine), is pining for more than understudy status in the title role and is frustrated that the rising star who is playing Salome is Clea’s former lover, Ambur (Ambur Braid). The understudy for the part of Herod, Luke (Douglas Smith), isn’t anyone’s lover, but he has long held a candle for his former classmate, Jeannie.

There’s more afoot in “Seven Veils” — incest, child abuse, adultery, and sexual harassment — and it’s to Mr. Egoyan’s credit that the Byzantine machinations of his script are made legible. He had his work cut out for him, having crafted the film during the 2023 revival of his 1992 production of “Salome.” Scheduling the movie with the opera had to be its own kind of time-management ordeal.

Are the glimpses we see of the theatrical production those of Mr. Egoyan’s devising? If so, his “Salome” looks wildly inventive and, given its story, appropriately sly and disturbingly salacious. Having actual opera performers in “Seven Veils” — not only Ms. Braid, but Michael Kupfer-Radecky and Michael Schade — adds a welcome degree of authenticity, even as they take on the guises of unsympathetic characters.

The trouble with Mr. Egoyan’s movie is its lack of authenticity as a fictional narrative. The script’s confluence of Freudian portent and sexual politics is less righteous or provocative than tired and predictable. The film’s structure — with its piecemeal array of flashbacks, voiceovers, and meta-commentary on life and art — seems better suited for literature than cinema. The apercus in the story are overwrought when they’re not embarrassing. Yes, I’ll invite a pun: What a soap opera.

A subplot about blackmail breaks with type in that it proves how even the most virtuous among us are prone to ambition, error, and loss. On the whole, however, “Seven Veils” is, if not a hot mess, then a clatter of hot button bonafides.