Whoever has no house now, will never have one.
Whoever is alone will stay alone,
will sit, read, write long letters through the evening,
and wander along the boulevards, up and down,
restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.

The last stanza of “Autumn Day” by Rainer Maria Rilke*
— translated by Stephen Mitchell

I watched Charlie Kaufman’s Synecdoche, New York last night (the last stanza of “Autumn Day” is read during the opening scene). I’ve been a big fan of Kaufman, but I wasn’t sure I’d like Synecdoche, New York based on early reviews. It sounded heavy, dark, obtuse, plodding. And it actually was heavy, dark, obtuse, and plodding, but in a good way. I like Peter Bradshaw’s review in The Guardian, “The film is either a masterpiece or a massively dysfunctional act of self-indulgence and self-laceration.” I’d say it was both. Roger Ebert says, “I watched it the first time and knew it was a great film and that I had not mastered it.” I agree. I’d like to watch it again a few weeks/months from now.

There were several funny scenes, hints of Adaptation and Being John Malkovich, but all in all, it’s a sprawling, melancholy film. But if you, like me, have been a bit hesitant to take on Kaufman’s latest, give it a try, it’s worth it.

* Read the whole of “Autumn Day” here.