It's always interesting when a filmmaker finally decides to make that self-referential "artist" film. Fellini set the bar with 8 1/2, Godard expanded on the form with Le Mepris, and Woody Allen has made about a dozen solid films in the style. In fact, nearly every prominent director or writer has, in some way, explored the plight or joys of the artist within his or her work. It's what they think they know, afterall.

With Adaptation, Charlie Kaufman contributed to the genre in screenplay form and, with the help of director Spike Jonze, crafted a poignant look into the mind of a writer. Now, with his directorial debut, Synecdoche, New York, Kaufman retreads familiar territory in an epically frustrating manner.

To call Synecdoche, New York "ambitious" is to understate the sheer scope of Kaufman's script. Unfortunately, this is exactly the result when the screenplay is paired with Kaufman's direction. That's not to say that this is an absolute failure on one front and complete success on the other. Kaufman's direction is, at times, inspired and fitting, just as his writing is, at times, overwrought and pretentious. Still, there's a certain license afforded when an artist makes a film about the artist. It's a glimpse inside a mind that- while attuned to articulating the complexities of society at large- might struggle with personal insight. Because of this, the viewer is inclined to accept a bit of self-indulgence, chalk it up to inner-difficulties far outside the realm of conventional understanding, and view even glaring failures as indicative of the indescribable relationship between the artist and society at large. His pretentiousness is a reflection of our culture, and it is the benchmark of the artist film.

Unfortunately, we've seen it all before: the artist as hypochondriac, the artist as womanizer, the artist as bitter depression, the artists as... gay?

Luckily, Kaufman injects enough unique ideas into this film to make it worth a watch. The idea of art reflecting life to such an extent that life is merely a series of mirrors upon which we leave pieces of ourselves behind, behind, behind... until there is nothing left; until we are unrecognizable amongst our work. This concept informs the film, its rich sets, visual feats, and vibrant cast. Phillip Seymor Hoffman, in particular, turns in his usual fine performance as Caden Cotard, a theatre director who, nearing the end of his life, must create that one last work that is "real and true."

Fortunately for Kaufman, this is not his last chance at greatness. Like Caden- who, despite his grandiose visions and dense world, needed in his squalor only the comfort of another, understanding human being- Kaufman need only think small(er) for what might be his true, first directorial masterpiece.