Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be film school students.

Of the two Ellen Page vehicles, I thought I was going to hate the darling-and-therefore-suspect “Juno” (2007) and love what I thought would be redemptively weird “The Tracey Fragments,” (2008). I was wrong, but it’s not Page’s fault.

I blame “Tracey’s” Jeremiah Munce, as in “conceptual design by,” as in what kind of pretentious aural soundscape nonsense is that?

IMDB says “Fragments” is the “first feature film to use Mondrian multi-frame compositions for the entire length.” It’s quite like standing in Best Buy examining the wall of HDTVs. This results in

frames that are broken up into birthday cakes, evil clowns, toy tanks, forks and a tin of beans (which redeems its existence, as you’ll see) while a voice-over postulates on how dead girls in ditches turn into honey on their family’s breakfast table. That effect they use in decongestant commercials, breaking the screen up into eight separate plot lines to simulate foggy-headedness and a great need for pseudoephedrine? Munce keeps the “this is what it’s like to be schizophrenic” gag going for —wait, IMDB is telling me the film was also 77 minutes, when it was clearly 77 hours. One sec while I write an indignant e-mail to IMDB’s customer service.

Anyway, most of the time Ellen Page stumbles around like a victim in a daze more incoherent than “Chaotic,” the Britney Spears newlywed reality show. Had they given the directorship to Terry Gilliam and ditched the picture-in-picture, the movie might have been spectacular.

Page is great when the script allows her to be, especially in her dreams of becoming glammeratzi mystery woman Estuary Palomino to her dream boy “New Boy” Billy Zero (played by Toronto rockabilly cat Slim Twig, who recalls a younger, still-scrawny Jack White). Billy Zero arrives to save the movie dream sequence-style, with a pompadour and vintage shoes and a cigarette behind his ear roaring with a motorcycle down the school halls. Unfortunately, if you’ve seen “Rocky Horror Picture Show,” you know what bad movies do to cute biker boys.

Pregnant-teens-do-good flick “Juno,” on the other hand, lived down to my prejudices, initially. The line drawings of the opening sequence, Target by way of Napoleon Dynamite, make you feel like you’re about to be pitched a sale on Sunny D and garish dorm-room sheet sets. The attempts to create the dialog of impolite, 4chan-saturated youngsters sound like Kevin Federline demos. “Yo yo giggidy go, honest to blog, your Eggo is preggo, Rainbow Bright.” “Silencio, moldy oldster!” “Homeslice, this is one doodle that can’t be undid.” “Phuket, Thailand!” This stuff mocks itself.

However, if you can make it past the “OMG I’m pregnant” first part of the movie, it redeems itself. Skinny track nerd and baby daddy Mikey Cera (go watch “Clark and Michael” online now) turns into someone who can be fallen in love with. Jason Bateman, aka Michael Bluth, as the husband of the couple who want to adopt Juno’s baby, avoids (by “American Beauty” margins), barely, territory that could easily be creepy. You’ll either love or hate the marathon soundtrack, made by precious Millenials with bad posture and thumb holes in their thermals who weave “Contra” cheat codes into their lyrics.

Despite all of that, if you don’t at least think of tearing up while watching this one, your heart is made of blueberry slushie. And mark my words if someone doesn’t turn made-up comic (think Sailor Moon relents after too many lonely nights at sea) “Most Fruitful Yuki” into a boutique maternity store for mommies-to-be in SoHo within the year.

Ashley O’Dell reviews movies that aren’t in the theater anymore. She lives in North Hollywood, near the In-N-Out Burger.