Synecdoche, New York (Charlie Kaufman, 2008)

I'm sure many would have stepped up to the soapbox to decry that a man as prolific with his writing as Kaufman (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Being John Malkovich, Adaptation, Confessions of a Dangerous Mind) was, being chained by Hollywood fail-safes, being denied his Fellini moment and, finally granted directorial power, would create something of true wonder.
Sadly this is not it: as much as you want Philip Seymour Hoffman, one of this generation's superlative screen actors, to stumble upon a hidden meaning, all we see is him stumble through disjointed leaps in his life as he attempts to create the ultimate theatre piece which will be his whole life in New York with actors for all the people he's ever been with and the whole city recreated as a set. Kaufman comes out and says: 'This is my life as a self-involved writer; witness the emptiness', and yes, we witness the emptiness. It's not that there's no content; he still depicts real concerns, but boo hoo. The artist's pain is too introspective to ever equal real pain: it remains a symbol, that's all.

5/10