Charlie Kaufman is, indisputably, a very unique filmmaker, and I've enjoyed many his projects, such as Anomalisa, Adaptation & Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind. But Synecdoche, New York left me completely cold, giving me none of the quirky insights or off-the-wall intrigue that the aforementioned films delivered. Philip Seymour Hoffman pretty much made a career out of playing sympathisable creeps, humanising them and finding something deep inside that we can relate to. But he can do little here with a character so miserable, so grim and so devoid of any semblance of life that his self-pitying mumblings are all he really has to offer. And I deliberately use the word mumblings, because he speaks with such little clarity as to be practically inaudible. I couldn't connect with him, or even feel sorry for him. His motivations were so self-indulgent, as is the film itself, and that's the entire problem. The movie is all about art imitating life, and if you're going to go down that road, and have a character vicariously lives out his ambitions, if that character is a dull, monotonous bore, then there's no way we're going to be interested in what his play is about, or what he wants it to express. It all takes place within a warped sense of reality, as you might expect from a Kaufman production, but there's no fundamental reason to care, and the most basic of questions are never answered. How did the play rehearse for 17 years without ever being staged? How did he have the money to pay for it? And why are women throwing themselves at this worthless wretch? I don't know, and I don't care to find out. It's a massive movie with massive ideas, but also massive delusions and massive pretentions. It doesn't dent my confidence in Kaufman's abilities, since he's made great movies since, but this is one I just couldn't connect with.