Having said that, in some ways the lack of comprehensibility is part of Synecdoche's appeal. It's a surreal film filled with surreal events and goings on. Morton's character is going to buy a house which appears to be on fire, and yet she buys it anyway and lives in it for an unknown amount of years as the fire continues to degrade it. Caden notices lumps under his skin; he busts his head open on a wayward sink accessory, his leg starts to shake uncontrollably. His wife and daughter inexplicably move to Germany, the latter becoming some sort of tattooed model/stripper. Now there's either a deep meaning to all of that (just a few examples of the crazy, miffing stuff on display throughout) or it's just something Kaufman thought would make for interesting viewing. But that's part of what makes Synecdoche such a fascinating piece of work - you could spend the entire movie watching closely, just trying to figure out what it means, if it even means anything.
On an aesthetic level, Synecdoche, New York is a visually beautiful film. Cinematographer Frederick Elmes (Blue Velvet, Hulk) makes the movie look soft and subtle, a kind of inviting look that defies the fairly inaccessible and confusing nature of the whole thing. There is a gorgeous score from Jon Brion (who also did Kaufman's Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind), which is simultaneously pessimistic and yet strangely hopeful — a reflection of the movie in general.
There's not much more that can be said about Synecdoche, New York. It's a drama and a comedy... or is it the other way around? The moments of comedy are filled with pain, truth, and sadness. Its moments of drama have a vein of comedy running through them. It's all interwoven. It's a film about many things: life, love, despair, monotony, aging, illness, hopefulness, happiness, sadness, confusion, enlightenment... I could go on and on. But above all, the movie's fractured and confusing nature is exposing that same aspect of real life. At least I think it is; then again maybe not...
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