Ninguna película me había deprimido tanto como Synecdoche, New York, de Charlie Kaufman. También me dejó increíblemente confundido. Claro, eso fue en Diciembre, ya tiene tiempo. El caso es que el tipo es un genio.
What was once before you - an exciting, mysterious future - is now behind you. Lived; understood; disappointing. You realize you are not special. You have struggled into existence, and are now slipping silently out of it. This is everyone’s experience. Every single one. The specifics hardly matter. Everyone is everyone. So you are Adele, Hazel, Claire, Olive. You are Ellen. All her meager sadnesses are yours; all her loneliness; the gray, straw-like hair; her red raw hands. Its yours. It is time for you to understand this.
As the people who adore you stop adoring you; as they die; as they move on; as you shed them; as you shed your beauty; your youth; as the world forgets you; as you recognize your transience; as you begin to lose your characteristics one by one; as you learn there is no-one watching you, and there never was, you think only about driving - not coming from any place; not arriving any place. Just driving, counting off time. Now you are here, it's 7:43. Now you are here, it's 7:44. Now you are...
Ask her if you can put your head on her shoulder.
¿A qué viene todo esto?
Alejo y yo haremos una película áltamente conceptual (y estoy siendo sarcástico y no-sarcástico al mismo tiempo). El guión está a medio cocinar. Los interesados digan “¡yo!”. NO LES PAGAREMOS NADA.