Though similar phrases have been said of other actors in other films, it’s impossible to imagine anyone but Philip Seymour Hoffman as Caden Cotard in Charlie Kaufman’s Synecdoche, New York. So fully does Hoffman embody Kaufman’s personal neuroses represented in Cotard that the line between actor and character is not just blurred – it is decimated. Indeed, asking questions like “What does it mean to be a character?” and “What does the role of creator entail?” is absolutely Synecdoche‘s game. But where another actor might have fallen beneath the weight of Kaufman’s meta- and multi-layered treatise on mortality, Hoffman brings out Cotard’s fear and vulnerability with such terrifying acuity that he achieves the character’s purpose – to stop being a character all together. By the end of the journey of Synecdoche, Cotard is no longer the man played by Hoffman and Hoffman is no longer the actor acting in Kaufman’s film. If ever there were an appropriate and unpretentious moment to use the word “transcendent,” it would be to describe this, Hoffman’s most complete and outstanding performance.
Synecdoche, having no proper parallel in its own medium, is closer to Tom McCarthy’s novel Remainder than it is to anything else. It is an anti-story about a man obsessed with trying to express himself authentically. Hoffman’s Cotard is a “Genius” Grant-winning playwright whose masterpiece is a re-creation of his own existence, down to the most minute detail. Throughout Synecdoche, Cotard’s death anxiety builds upon itself, and it is up to Hoffman to show the extreme physical changes that Cotard’s body undergoes. Though looking at Hoffman’s performance as merely a performance is neither here nor there, the technical prowess is still there to be analyzed. Hoffman’s facial expressions rarely move beyond caution-tempered curiosity or amusement and, instead, usually remain fixed in contemplative pain. The body language that Hoffman uses, too, is all there to show how Cotard’s nexus controls all of his person. At times, Cotard’s skin is peeling or bubbling with stress. Other times, he picks up nervous tics or has to move more methodically to accommodate his failing systems. Not once is Cotard “okay” – either physically or emotionally – and Hoffman’s so believable that you begin to worry that he, Hoffman, is in danger.
Yet, the transcendent aspects of Synecdoche have nothing to do with the mannerisms Hoffman provides and everything to do with his immersion in the film. It’s darn near impossible to describe without seeing it for yourself, but Cotard doesn’t feel like a part of the film so much as the film feels lived in by both Hoffman and the viewer. The erratic time jumps follow the transformation of Cotard (and Hoffman, by extension, who receives superb help from the costuming and make-up crew), and by the time the credits hit, you feel as if you’ve lived a full life within the space of the film. It’s a strange sensation that almost doesn’t feel real. In the same way that formalist poets champion restrictions because of the ironic freedom they provide the poem, Synecdoche finds total freedom within the confines of the film structure. Hoffman is our entry into experiencing that and expresses Cotard’s tortured meditations in a way that gives off the impression that Hoffman is realizing how to become Cotard as the film goes along, just as Sammy is realizing the same and just as Cotard is realizing how to do his play.
The idea of being a “creator” is the other half of the genius at work. When Roland Barthes argued the death of the author, he was looking ahead to Synecdoche, New York, which could be viewed in two ways (and many more, I’m sure; also, Barthes wasn’t looking ahead to films at all, but it’s an interesting way of looking at this). The first way is to view it as Charlie Kaufman’s child, protected by Kaufman with his visible blood and sweat covering every inch of the film. The other way is to ignore – to “kill” – Kaufman entirely and let Synecdoche converse with the viewer independent of authoritative meaning and purpose. And while I usually side acknowledging the author’s meticulous presence throughout a masterwork like this, Hoffman shows that this isn’t just Kaufman’s film as he intended it – it is also Hoffman’s, and it is also the viewer’s. What to make of Hazel’s home, eternally burning, for instance? Kaufman seems to relinquish control at some points and let the film live on its own, upon which Hoffman takes whatever cues he finds (much like the scraps of paper Cotard hands out to his actors) and runs with them. Hoffman, then, is also the creator of Synecdoche, New York, joining both Cotard and Kaufman, along with other characters in the film who represent aspects of that role.
Some of the things that affect you most end up becoming the hardest to articulate. Not only does Hoffman’s performance in Synecdoche, New York fit into that category for me, but my emotions regarding his passing are similarly inexplicable. There is a sermon during a funeral scene in the film (staged, of course), however, that gets at some of the ideas and explanations that might provide some comfort if only by making things a little more clear:
“Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true, and there are a million little strings attached to every choice you make that can destroy your life every time you choose…”
The extent to which Hoffman was aware of this is now tragically obvious. And yet whatever demons the man saw in himself, Cotard’s struggles show how easy it is for every one of us to create that destruction for ourselves even just because of the smallest of decisions.
“…and they say there is no fate, but there is. It’s what you create. And even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second…”
The extent to which we are aware of this is now tragically obvious. Though Hoffman’s life is a blip in history and everyone who ever knew him will be dead eventually, what he created in his lifetime will make eons out of those fractions of seconds.
“…so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope that something good will come along – something to make you feel connected, something to make you feel whole, something to make you feel loved.”
If all we are given in our time here is this single life, and the search for truth comes in those feelings of connectedness and wholeness and love, then I would like to say of Philip Seymour Hoffman that for every time I sit down to watch Synecdoche, New York, I am reminded of that. And even though Caden Cotard is a harsh reminder of the eventual finality of death, I feel a genuine connection to him and – through him – to Hoffman. That is the highest praise I can offer any actor.
– Sean Colletti
This article is part of our Philip Seymour Hoffman weekend spotlight. Click here to read the other articles.