Synecdoche, New York

You've heard the adage, "there are only 100 or so stories to be told," when describing literature or film. Most artists in the latter medium are content with recycling ideas, concepts (even entire TV programs). Little goes beyond sitcom or melodrama anymore, it seems. The adage is true, I believe, but as I've said, it isn't so much the what that makes a film interesting/worthy, but the how. I'm always looking for fresh voices, perspectives. Harder and harder to find, especially in the mainstream. Then there are the even rarer talents like writer Charlie Kaufman. His screenplays for BEING JOHN MALKOVICH, ADAPTATION, ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND and a few others are distinguished by utter originality. Imagination run beautifully free. There's no one else like him. What's especially noteworthy is how Kaufman deals with the same old issues of loneliness, illness, mortality, relations in ways that expand the very possibilities of thought, of how to express them. We can all relate to the above, but how does the viewer respond when Kaufman expresses them in his own unique way? Sometimes, filmgoers walk out in droves. 

For Kaufman's latest, SYNECDOCHE, NEW YORK, his first foray in directing in addition to his screenwriting, I imagine many lost their resolve. One of my patients last year explained that very scenario to me, as she and her husband, big fans of the film's lead actor, Philip Seymour Hoffman, were so bored and perplexed that they left after half an hour. If you've seen any David Lynch films in the theater, you'll experience much the same. My inner snob looooovvvvves when this happens. My sneering film buff persona is filled with narcissistic glee, certain that these fools wouldn't know a good movie if it smacked them headlong. But then, I stop and try to see their point of view. Many people need linearity, logic, cohesion in their art, just like in their work and everyday lives. Many people don't do ambiguity too well. Then I stop again and just feel pity for them, for missing SYNECDOCHE and its beauty and mystery is surely some sort of tragedy.

I won't try to summarize too extensively; such would not be a proper way to review this film. But in a nutshell, Hoffman portrays (I suppose that's a valid term here) theater director Caden Cotard, a 40ish hypochondriac acutely aware of his own decay. Physical manifestations appear daily: pustules on his flesh, pupils that will not dilate properly, bloody gums. Emotionally, he will weather the tempest of a wife who flees to Germany with their 4 year-old daughter, and subsequent attempts at romantic connections that will terminate in, at best, frustration. Then one day, he receives a grant that offers a large sum of money earmarked for the creation of another theatrical landmark (his previous effort: Death of a Salesman, acted by young adults in an attempt to make a statement on the universality of pain). He creates a new landmark, alright: a full-scale replica of NYC within a massive warehouse within NYC. He will populate this set with actors going about the business of life. 

It will be an original work, a work in progress that has more pages written as Cotard experiences more of his own real life. Tragedies, triumphs (mostly tragedies) will be fodder for his play. It becomes his life, or vice versa. Decades will go by, decay will increase, and there will be no audience. Literally, and depending on your spiritual convictions, theologically as well. As with any Kaufman puzzle, things get very, very complex. If you've seen his previous films, you think you might know what to expect. However, SYNECDOCHE outdoes the previous works in sheer complexity. More tellingly, also in profundity. Not since Ingmar Bergman's works have I seen a more philosophical, existential work of cinema. The actors in Cotard's play are hired to play people in the director's life, even the director himself. Eventually, there are dopplegangers of each of the characters, further blurring an already murky scenario. It really turns the art imitates life/life imitates art discussion inside out. Cotard acknowledges, like many before him in movies and real life, that Life is merely a stage, filled with actors. You are the lead, others are supporting, some are walk-ons. Some stay in your scenes for a while, others are like extras. 

I thought to Brian DePalma's little seen HOME MOVIES, where the main character is described as "an extra in his own life." Sometimes Cotard feels that way, too. Other times, he mourns as his attempts at connection-the only thing that brings any meaning to life in his fractured POV-are failed and/or short-lived. And how long does he have? How many more chapters are in his story? Are are there merely pages left? Paragraphs? Sentences?! One piquant scene shows Cotard reading the latest self-help book authored by his counselor. She happens to be across the aisle from him on an airplane. She hikes her skirt; he rebuffs. When he returns to the book, he reads that a beautiful woman just came on to him, he refused. The End. He finds reams of empty pages. What is Fate? Coincidence? Grand design? 

The warehouse within the warehouse becomes a warehouse within a warehouse within a warehouse. A closet becomes a key location near the end of Cotard's life, a small place perhaps symbolizing how old age limits your world quite tangibly. An ear mic is given to him around this time; a stage manager's voice tells him every move he should make. He sees the key people in his life die off. He lives to see an unremittingly bleak future, a future where his very neighborhood, perhaps one of his creation, has gone beyond seed, a disrepair that mirrors his own. But is it merely the stage he created for his opus?

Kaufman fills SYNECDOCHE with all sorts of rich symbolism, allegory. Why does Hazel (Samantha Morton), a love interest of Cotard's, buy a house that is perpetually on fire? She perhaps knows how her life will end, and accepts her fate when she signs the mortgage. Ah, there is so much more, but to discover the enigmas on your own will either frustrate you beyond measure, or intrigue you to multiple viewings, which this film absolutely demands. What a challenging, frightening, despairing, yet (accidentally?) optimistic work of art this is. See it, discuss it, see it again. See it with folks with different beliefs and worldviews. For all the different interpretations brought to the table, I think all who appreciate this film will agree that it is a perversely beautiful tragedy. But the real life tragedy here, in my not so humble opinion, will have been to have missed this film before you take your own last breath.