Just finished watching Synecdoche, New York and I have to say that for much of the picture, I didn't know what to think, what to feel. I was lost, insensitive to the toilings of the characters, their own struggles with being lost in their infinitely small moment of consciousness. The tiny paintings of Adele (Catherine Keener's character) seem to best exemplify this notion that is so dear to the Carl Sagan in me, the mark we make on the universe is so small that it is ever-rapidly approaching insignificance. Yet, insignificance is only what we make it.
This is the first movie to make me cry in a long time, because I felt the real, coursing arterial of ravenous hunger for love and connectedness. We make ourselves a synecdoche of our own desires, but not a true representation, rather a truncation. We cut ourselves off at the head before we are fully grown to flower.
Charlie Kaufman again writes a tale so close to the real heart of the plural singular, but it is depressing. The turpitude with which it sails across the room to my eyes is painful, for it is all too real, too self-reflective.
Luckily, I have The Day The Earth Stood Still left to watch so I don't feel like hanging myself quite yet.
1 comment:
anyone who can do what you do with words is far from insignificant. I learn something meaningful, provocative, dislodging every time I read what you write. Thank you.
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