Benicio Del Toro stars as revolutionary icon Ernesto (Che) Guevara in Steven Soderbergh's film Che. (Teresa Isasi/E1 Films)

Few current film directors shape-shift as much as Steven Soderbergh. After reviving the American indie film with his Palme d'Or-winning debut, Sex, Lies and Videotape (1989), Soderbergh proved himself a most unpredictable talent, alternating between odd, experimental projects (Schizopolis, Bubble and the mock-Dogme film Full Frontal) and more commercial fare like Erin Brockovich, Traffic and the Ocean’s movies.

Che is a biography that doesn’t let you know its hero; a historical study that actually skirts years of history; a Cuban Revolution movie with no Havana; and an epic that refuses to entertain.

Both of Soderbergh’s filmmaking modes are on display in Che, his examination of revolutionary Ernesto (Che) Guevara. Che is comprised of two separate movies (“Part One” and “Part Two”) that can each stand alone, but are best viewed together in the road-show version that is making its way to Canadian theatres.

The film’s first, and arguably more accessible half charts Guevara’s (Benicio Del Toro) rise from humble Argentine doctor to full-blown revolutionary; this is the triumphant Che whose iconic image is used to sell T-shirts, posters and even Taco Bell. Meticulously researched by screenwriter Peter Buchman, Part One is based on Che’s own Reminiscences of the Cuban Revolutionary War. But Soderbergh’s film is no Hollywood biopic; it aims to challenge viewers from the start, briskly bobbing and weaving between Che’s infamous 1964 visit to the U.N., the young Guevera’s first meeting with Fidel Castro in 1955 and actual newsreel footage of Fulgencio Batista’s 1952 coup in Cuba.

Catalina Sandino Moreno, left, as Aleida Guevara and Benicio Del Toro in a scene from Che. (Daniel Daza/E1 Films)

After the initial deluge of images from different eras, Che focuses on Guevara’s time in Cuba (circa 1956-9), as he lives among the band of guerillas who will wend their way from the Sierra Maestra mountains to Santa Clara in their efforts to overthrow the Batista dictatorship. There’s a lot of trudging through the jungle (under glorious foliage, captured in glossy widescreen), but Soderbergh pays less attention to combat than to the daily grind of staging a revolution. We see the insurgents training, strategizing and shooting the breeze; all the while, Che tends to the wounded, insists that his fellow rebels keep up with their studies and works his way up from medic to guerilla to comandante.

Much of this part of Che is a slog, and with many of the insurgents sporting identical scruffy beards and uniforms, some of it is downright confusing. So it’s a relief whenever the movie flash-forwards to Che’s 1964 visit to New York. Captured in gorgeous, grainy black and white, these scenes offer glimmers of the charisma and intensity that made Che the figure of fascination that he remains to this day. As he meets fawning admirers (including American politico Eugene McCarthy) at a cocktail reception or draws applause from U.N. members after his “Homeland or death!” speech, Che the man jolts Che the movie into high gear.

Part One maintains this momentum until its final (and best) scenes, which recreate Che’s victory in the decisive battle at Santa Clara, complete with visuals that conjure up the danger and immediacy of Susan Meiselas’s late 1970s photos of the Nicaraguan civil war.

Part Two jumps roughly seven years ahead, skipping over Guevera’s less impressive years in the Congo. When Peter Buchman and Benjamin A. Van der Veen’s script catches up with Che, he has bid farewell to Cuba and is attempting to sneak into Bolivia for what will be his last revolutionary hurrah.

This second film is, at once, more straightforward than Part One and infinitely more challenging. As the days of Guevara’s determined, winding trek through the mountains of Bolivia are counted out onscreen (341 in all), Che moves further and further away from conventional movie storytelling. Part Two’s bare-bones plot is the downbeat mirror image of Part One’s story — in fact, many moments in the second half are direct echoes of scenes from Part One. As we already know, things don’t end well for Guevara, and even if you haven’t read your history books, there are enough shots of brittle, grey trees in Part Two to forecast his imminent doom.

Fidel Castro (Demian Bichir, left) plots the Cuban revolution with Che. (Laura Magruder/E1 Films)

As Guevara goes rogue, Soderbergh follows suit — the experimental, verité filmmaking of Part Two is dazzling to watch. Working with a new lightweight digital camera seems to have set Soderbergh free. There are a number of jaw-droppingly beautiful tableaux, including woozy shots of Che in the grips of a violent asthma attack and a scene in which a swamp’s surface ripples and then gradually reveals the guerillas who are trying to wade across it.

Benicio Del Toro’s performance throughout is equally stunning; it’s no wonder Sean Penn has been bemoaning the fact Del Toro wasn’t nominated for an Oscar. The actor has burrowed so deeply under Che’s skin that it almost doesn’t feel like acting — he just is Che. But like everything else in the movie, Del Toro’s work is closed off. He is so immersed in the role that viewers seeking clues to Guevara’s motivations will be left feeling a little frustrated.

Frustration is a big part of the entire 257-minute Che experience. A movie in two parts and two styles, one that is equal parts rise and fall, light and dark, Che almost demands an equally schizophrenic review. Che is a biography that doesn’t let you know its hero; a historical study that actually skirts years of history; a Cuban Revolution movie with no Havana; and an epic that refuses to entertain. It’s one of the most gorgeous, nervy movies I’ve seen in a long time, yet I find myself hard-pressed to actually recommend it.

Che opens in Toronto on Feb. 20.

Lee Ferguson writes about the arts for CBCNews.ca.