Charlie Kaufman is hurt, for a number of reasons. For one, something inside of him is fueling his overwhelmingly dreary yet whimsical and meekly hopeful screenplays. For another, the reviews on his latest film are out, and they're a mixed bag. The critics review and get read, Hollywood puts out and gets seen, people pay for tickets and popcorn, and somewhere in the whole mess of things, Kaufman, 50, stuck his neck out farther than any filmmaker in recent memory. But to describe
Synecdoche, New York as the brave new personal statement of Charlie Kaufman is a discredit to him, to the film, or to anyone reading this. Because art looks outward, as well as inward. The harshest criticism that reviewers level at the film take aim in its inherent self-reflexiveness and indulgent, illogical nature (so they say). That is to say the writer of
Being John Malkovich,
Adaptation, and
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is still using the tools that define him the most. This film, Kaufman's directorial debut, however, is not interested in tinkering with formula, upsetting expectations, or otherwise proving to the world how clever Charlie Kaufman is. It is one man's examination of life, sex, and death.
