As an auteurist, it is difficult for me to assign even a screenwriter the role of creative force behind a film. But when that screenwriter is Charlie Kaufman, it's hard not to. Now that Kaufman has made his confident directorial debut, it becomes academic. His newest film, Synecdoche, New York, is most assuredly of a piece with the rest of his oeuvre, solidifying the argument.
Like in Adaptation (2002), the protagonist in Synecdoche is a writer, a playwright in this case. Caden Cotard (Philip Seymour Hoffman) is also depressed, pessimistic, and completely self-centered. His wife Adele (Catherine Keener) absconds to Berlin with their young daughter, Olive, ostensibly to promote her art show (she paints tiny thumbnail-size portraits). But in reality, she is setting up house with her maybe-more-than-friend Maria (Jennifer Jason Leigh). Just like Nicolas Cage was playing a version of Charlie Kaufman (literally, as that was the character's name) in the earlier film, Hoffman seems to be channeling the same spirit. His self-absorption manifests itself in the form of severe hypochondria; a lack of self-esteem that somehow makes him more charming to women, not less; and his greatest enemy seems to be a lack of confidence in his writing. While Cage's character felt a block at the idea of adapting another writer's work, here Cotard's impediment is mounting an autobiographical play that will have enough scope to rival the enormity of his life. Cotard may lack self-esteem, but he doesn't lack artistic hubris.
This is where we start to realize that Cotard inhabits a surreal world not unlike that in another of Kaufman's films, Being John Malkovich (1999). You'll recall that as the film where John Cusack's Craig, a schlub puppeteer, ends up working as a filing clerk at a company whose offices are on the 7 1/2 floor of a Manhattan office building. In Synecdoche, Cotard purchases the largest warehouse one can ever imagine, and proceeds to mount a play with the largest cast ever assembled in what will eventually be a life-size version of New York City. Yeah, don't worry. Just like it made sense to find a portal into actor John Malkovich's consciousness on that 7 1/2 floor, it makes a weird kind of sense when you see Cotard's play being staged in this movie. Synecdoche's world is an odd one where it's not unusual to hear a former flame of Cotard's, Hazel (Samantha Morton), tell him that she's got to leave to meet her husband and the twins, and she proceeds to rattle off three children's names instead of two. When Hazel goes house-hunting, she buys a burning house because it's more affordable. The picture above is of Hazel entertaining Cotard in said house after she's moved in.
Surrealism is not used simply for the sake of piling on non-sequiturs. There is a moral dilemma being explored here through the prism of surrealism, just like in Kaufman's most accessible work, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004). In that film, Joel (Jim Carrey) was dismayed to find out that his former lover, Clementine (Kate Winslet), was so over their relationship she decided to have the memories of it erased from her mind. Consenting to the same procedure as an act of revenge, he instead finds he does not want to lose the memories. Synechdoche's dilemma concerns introspection. It asks, at what point does self-examination become more than a way to improve oneself, and become instead, a way of exiling oneself from one's own life and its significant events? Cotard is so fearful of dying of some disease he ambitiously tries to capture the meaning of life in his grand play, ignoring every event or person that would give his life the importance he seeks.
This is a theme that runs through all of Kaufman's work, the denial of elements in one's persona in the pursuit of answers to the mystery of same. Whether it's Joel discovering this trap a little too late into his memory-erasure of Clementine; or Craig's decision to hide behind John Malkovich's appearance in order to both advance his career as a puppeteer and win a woman's attention; or Charlie trying to gain personal redemption in adapting someone else's story; all have Kaufman's distinct imprimatur. Synecdoche, New York is our first opportunity to see Kaufman's unexpurgated vision of reality unfold before us, and it is a resounding success.
It is 1964, the Bronx. The nation is still reeling from the assassination of a beloved president who represented vitality, courage and change. At St. Nicholas, a young charismatic priest, Father Flynn (Philip Seymour Hoffman) strives to make the Church more approachable to its schoolkids and parishioners. Sister Aloysius (Meryl Streep), trained a generation earlier under more rigid guidelines, is convinced that his methods promote a permissiveness that will ultimately undermine the Church. And caught in the middle is Sister James (Amy Adams), who must reconcile her own beliefs - much closer to the Father's - with that of her superior's. Sister James sees Father Flynn as a welcome ray of light in the doom-and-gloom atmosphere perpetuated by the strict Sister Aloysius. Flynn agrees, pointing out to the young nun, "The dragon is hungry," when Aloysius yells for a student to come see her.
But after a black student, Donald Miller returns uncomfortably from a meeting with the priest, Sister James starts suspecting Father Flynn of something unspeakable. Sister Aloysius is only too eager to confront the priest regarding the matter, stopping just short of an outright accusation of moral impropriety. And she is only too happy to push the matter to its limits in order to get Flynn out of "her" school.
John Patrick Shanley's Doubt is based on his own Pulitzer Prize-winning play. Ostensibly the story is about the question of whether or not Father Flynn committed the crime he is accused of by Sister Aloysius, pursuing her line of questioning without any evidence save for her moral certainty. However, it is easy to see the metaphor for some of the personal sacrifices we've made in the pursuit of the faceless fear that currently grips our nation. Are we right to attack someone or some thing without any hard evidence of their involvement in criminal activities? What happens to us when the possibility that we were wrong in our assumptions grows until it cannot be ignored? Can we hide behind morality when prejudice is the impetus for our actions? Shanley's film asks all of these questions, and doesn't always answer them successfully.
Shanley is astute enough to complicate this thin allegory by casting doubts on each side of the question. Yes, Father Flynn offers hope instead of fear. But can we judge a more insidious purpose in his lecture to the schoolboys about keeping their fingernails clean? And why does he indulge in moments of gluttony and vice, such as smoking, or the extra lumps of sugar in his tea? Sister Aloysius is not exactly the paragon of virtue herself, enjoying the occasional news reports on a transistor radio she confiscated from a student who was listening to it in class. But she is honest enough to acknowledge her momentary weakness. And she hides a streak of kindness, evident in the way she protects an older nun who is going blind from being discovered so she won't get released from her duties.
The cast unanimously give excellent performances. Hoffman plays Flynn with the right amounts of big brother, chummy pal, and understanding confidant, recasting the popular representative stereotype of the Church - the mean, old, Catholic nun as depicted by Sister Aloysius - with the fresher notion of the hip priest you wish you had grown up listening to at Mass. As the naive Sister James, Adams convincingly plays the role of student, an empty vessel seeking knowledge and experience, yet unable to decide if her mentor should be Aloysius or Flynn. Viola Davis is significantly memorable as Mrs. Miller, the student's mother. In just two scenes, she is able to hold her own, emotionally sparring with the legendary Streep, as she wonders whether the pursuit of the truth about Father Flynn is worth all the turmoil this would ultimately bring her son. But amid stellar performances Streep's is a cut above the rest.
Streep is always the character you are with as the story unfolds. And she steals every scene she is in, even when in the company of the other illustrious actors. She can be disarmingly funny, such as when Sister James argues on Father Flynn's behalf, and a bulb in the room blows out. Sister Aloysius declares to the innocent young nun, "Look at that. You blew out my light." But she can also be devastating, using God as an inadvertent co-conspirator, witheringly declaring the same statement to Father Flynn when the bulb blows out again, as he defends himself. Surprisingly, it is her interpretation of the character which also undermines the central point of Doubt. She makes Sister Aloysius so convincing in her argument, that it is hard to believe she might have it all wrong. Streep's multilayered performance is probably the best I've seen all year.
In the end, Shanley's themes seem to fade into the gray areas he is working to conjure up. But its relevance to current events, and the performances, led by Streep's, are powerful enough to warrant viewing Doubt immediately.
Doubt is in limited release.
Still provided courtesy of Miramax Films.
