Philip Seymour Hoffman in Synecdoche, New York. (Courtesy photo)

Directed by: Charlie Kaufman
Starring: Philip Seymour Hoffman, Katherine Keener, Samantha Morton, Michelle Williams
Rating: R

If you’re a self-loathing narcissist who obsesses over death, your dream movie has arrived. Make room, Woody Allen, for Charlie Kaufman’s Synecdoche, New York. Few movies have divided critics as sharply in recent years, with even the staunchest admirers stopping far short of unqualified praise. Meanwhile, those who hate it really hate it. A few critics have dubbed Synecdoche, New York the worst movie of the year. At least one has called it the worst film ever made.

Based on my personal criteria, Synecdoche would be a candidate. It’s a wildly ambitious, self-indulgent personal piece by a very talented filmmaker. And only truly great filmmakers can make truly terrible movies. But I stand closer to the positive end of the scale than the negative. Synecdoche does go astray in a way that few other films can claim, but it appears to do so in service of Kaufman’s themes. The problem: even Kaufman struggles to articulate his themes. They have something to do with the elasticity of time, the fragility of personal identity, the inevitable demise of humanity, and probably a few other subjects, all of which are too big to be handled in one film. But Kaufman tries. For an hour Kaufman’s script is impressively tight, bursting with ideas and a dark humor that assures us we need not worry too much about our insanely miserable hero. Then Synecdoche, New York doesn’t just fall apart, it scatters to the four winds.

Caden Cotard (Philip Seymour Hoffman) is a respected theater director in Synecdoche. Caden is too consumed by his litany of strange health issues and his production of Death of a Salesman to acknowledge how removed he has become from his painter wife Adele (Katherine Keener, always on hand to divorce men in indies like this) and their daughter Olive. She heads to Germany for a month and tells him not to come. Then some amount of time between six months and 12 years goes by, during which Caden gives in to his longtime flirtation with ticket booth girl Hazel (Samantha Morton), and marries his young leading lady Claire (Michelle Williams), having another daughter whose name he struggles to remember. Meanwhile, the physical maladies add up—strange lumps and rashes, loss of the ability to salivate or cry. Things look to be turning around for Caden when he receives a MacArthur fellowship, which allows him to finally stage a personal piece of theater. He begins production on a massive theater project inside an old hangar. It becomes an examination of his own life, in which he casts actors as himself, Hazel, Claire, and others.

Kaufman may not like the comparisons, but it’s hard not to think of two renowned films of the French New Wave: Alain Resnais’ Last Year at Marienbad, with its repetition and temporal ambiguity; and Fellini’s 8½, with the large female cast and the director disappearing into a surreal subjectivity. What Synecdoche has over both of those films is a viciously funny sense of humor. But in spite of Kaufman’s cleverness and wit and a collection of delightful performances, Synecdoche is still a very tough watch. Once Caden becomes overwhelmed by the enormity of his theater piece, we’re so far removed from the emotions of the character we have too much time to focus on things like the old-age makeup and the lack of forward momentum. I might be willing to put my faith in Kaufman all the way to the near-apocalyptic finale, but Kaufman has shown a profound inability to come up with endings (Being John Malkovich, Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, and especially Adaptation). Philip Seymour Hoffman shuffles through nearly every shot of Synecdoche, and he’s never less than great—at least until the movie consumes him. Samantha Morton (Sweet & Lowdown, Minority Report) is wonderfully breezy, yet soulful, as Hazel. Michelle Williams (Brokeback Mountain) humanizes the fawning Claire with sweet vulnerability. Keener wisely plays Adele as more sympathetic than her standard angry divorcee. Dianne Wiest, Emily Watson, and Hope Davis do nice work with their meaty little roles. And Jennifer Jason Leigh creates a detestably funny villain in her very brief screen time. Tom Noonan (Manhunter) adds his unique brand of tall skinny whacko to the proceedings.

It doesn’t excuse the film its considerable faults, but if Synecdoche, New York had been made in French between 1961 (Marienbad) and 1963 (8½), it might just be hailed as a surrealist masterpiece. Forty-five years later it comes across as a vanity project of legendary proportions. Few movies can claim such highs and lows. Even ardent lovers of film may find Synecdoche, New York repelling, but even so, they should take a look. Like those long, challenging foreign films we watched in film class, Kaufman’s warped piece of self-analysis demands to be seen and debated. But instead of being deconstructed, Synecdoche, New York needs to be constructed.

Alex Manugian lives in Sherman Oaks, California. He grew up in Groton and has reviewed movies for Harvard residents for many years.