Review of Synecdoche, New York

Unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. When I walked out of the New York theater after I saw it the first time, I didn’t know what to think. I felt something, but I didn’t know what. My mind was focused on the burning house and the series of illnesses that Caden Cotard (Philip Seymour Hoffman) suffers. I thought about how clever it was to hide an event such as the burning house right under our noses throughout the whole film, and yet we’re still heartbroken at what happens because of it. And then I saw it again. It is a masterpiece--finely crafted and intricately layered--that rewards multiple viewings. Kaufman, the director and screenwriter, has shot for the moon, knowing full well that he would never make it, and shows that he has accomplished exactly what he wanted. Caden’s life is theater. He gets a MacArthur genius grant and sets off to create “something real.” So, of course, he hires actors to play real people. And then he hires actors to play the actors playing real people, and eventually hires an actor to play himself (who understands Caden better than Caden does). But he is distraught. Caden is stuck in his anxious state of being, forever dreading his inevitable death—stuck worrying about his daughter, his wife, his lover, his health, his play... his play... his play... all the while aging without even noticing that life is passing by--whether he pays attention to it or not.