In January, “Me and You and Everyone We Know” won a Special Jury Prize for “Originality of Vision” at Sundance. In May, it garnered the prestigious Camera d’Or (first film) award at Cannes. Come December, expect a fresh batch of hosannas from the various film-critic groups. But for now it’s June, the debut film by Miranda July is opening in theaters, and, if you’ll permit me, I’d like to present “Me and You and Everyone We Know” with an award for Most Overrated Film of the Season.

The universalizing title couldn’t be more wrong. “Me You And Everyone We Know” is concerned with a very small demographic indeed: the quirky, moody, flagrantly “sincere” little people endemic to an increasingly provincial American independent cinema. They are the children of “Rushmore.” You shall know them by their Goodwill chic, their mannered whimsy, the twee electronic music that underscores their every melancholic gesture.

Set in an unspecified Los Angeles suburb, the narrative weaves through lives of quiet desperation and knits them into patterns of vehement whimsy. Christine (Ms. July) is an aspiring artist who makes ends meet by chauffeuring the elderly. A maker of insipid video art, she’s intellectually middling and emotionally stunted – an amateur in every sense. Yes, but she is plucky, funky, and cute: a pixie hero for the emo set.

Unsurprisingly, the object of her affected affections has a shaky grasp on reality. We first meet Richard (John Hawkes), an introspective shoe salesman, as he sets fire to his own hand. Recently divorced, he does so to impress his two young sons. He is surprised that it hurts so much; from here on out we should not be surprised by the capricious screenplay. Robby (Brandon Ratcliff), his youngest son, has lately discovered Internet chat rooms to hilariously inappropriate results. Teenage Peter (Miles Thompson) engages in complicated sex games with the slightly older Rebecca (Najarra Townsend) and Heather (Natasha Slayton). Precocious but nervous, the girls also tease Andrew (Brad Henke), a neighborhood adult, with their naive come-ons.

In the background, shy young Sylvie (Carlie Westerman) keeps one eye on these sexual shenanigans and the other on her hope chest, a boxful of shiny consumer gizmos to be unpacked the day her future domestic bliss arrives. Over at the contemporary art center, a jaded curator named Nancy (Tracy Wright) considers submissions, including some of Christine’s wishy-washy performance videos.

Everyone yearns; everything aches; sincerity makes a stand against alienation, failure to communicate, post-September 11 ennui: You know the drill. Kid sexuality is set against grown-up neurosis. Innocence gives way to experience. Christine and Richard take teensy romantic baby steps and invent precious private babblings. Banal narcissistic art triumphs against institutional indifference; in the end, pretentious Nancy is just as susceptible to the human touch as me and you and everyone we know. The teenagers survive their erotic experiments and come a bit closer to coming of age.

And Robby? He brings the house down with this: )) > <(( That’s the scatological emoticon he types out during his naughty chat sessions; his explanation of what it stands for may end up the year’s most memorable comedic tour de force. At Cannes, the audience erupted in applause – the supreme sign of approval from a notoriously tough audience. One scene can redeem a movie, one honest character can make up for a lot.

Robby and his chat session aren’t the only reasons to recommend “Everyone” to everyone. Its gently eccentric sensibility walks a fine line between enchanting and annoying, but I suspect it will charm the flip-flops off the downtown tar get audience. I wasn’t entirely immune myself. Despite my nagging reservations, I essentially agree with a colleague who found it “irritatingly winning.”

Set against the heady international backdrop of Cannes, the circumscribed ambitions of “Me You And Everyone We Know” stood out in greater relief. That was then, and this is now: Ms. July’s debut inaugurates the new IFC Center, a multi-screen theater occupying the site of the legendary Waverly cinema. The Center is cause for celebration; we can’t have too many screens devoted to the alternatives. But I’m starting to worry that the alternative has become just a hipper mode of conformity.

What To See This Week

Mon Oncle (MoMA) Jacques Tati shot two versions of his great modernist comedy simultaneously: the one in French has since become canonical; a slightly shorter version in English (which Tati was said to prefer) has long been unavailable. MoMA presents this recently rediscovered and restored “Mon Oncle” as part of their annual preservation festival.

Princess Raccoon (Anthology Film Archives) Zhang Ziyi takes the title role in Seijun Suzuki’s daft, dazzling, blissfully bonkers musical. Featuring a menagerie of crazy critters (magical raccoons, golden frogs, a jealous king, an MC Queen, a foxy prince), this fabulous folkloric fantasia busts out everything from jazz tap in flip-flops to old school hip-hop to Queen-style arena rock. Getting your freak on has never been freakier.

Cafe Lumiere (Anthology Film Archives) So delicate it nearly floats off the screen, Hou Hsiao-hsien’s lovely, limpid homage to Ozu enters the twilight of its local theatrical run. Don’t miss it.