Synechdoche, New York

Soem screenwriters are so distinctive that audiences know exactly what they are going to get, regardless of the director. There's Arriaga with his multi-stranded, fractured narratives; Shyamalan with his "surprise" twist; and Charlie kaufman with his brain-achingly wacky plots. Up until now, Kaufman's more outlandish tendencies have been kept in check by imaginative directors such as Spike Jonze and Michel Gondry. Now, alas, he's on his own and self-indulgence reigns. True, there *are* dizzing moments in Synechdoche: multiple Cadens and Hazels appearing on stage simultaneously, the intertextuality multiplying endlessly; a petal falling from the tattooed arm of a dead woman. However, too much borders on the incomprehensible (dream logic or not), not to say pretentious. A character not only buys, but lives in, a continuously burning house (noone seems to think this is odd!). An annoying whining child becomes an equally annoying obsessive adult (I felt the urge to slap here EVERY time she appeared on screen). Noone, least of all the grant-awarding body, seems to question Caden's never-ending theatrical project, even as it destroys lives. Who can blame his two wives for leaving him? The big question is just why Hazel finds him so irresistible. In fact, the only character in whom I was remotely interested was Sammy AKA Caden no. 2. His smile and emotional warmth provided one of the few points of identification and his death is the only one that actually resonates. Not even the usually great Philip Seymour Hoffman can rescue the rest.