This is incredibly - I'm not using the word loosely - dense, layered, intellectually flashy, and downbeat. It's impressionistic art about a sad life and about inherent lack of meaning, which are the same topics that Ingmar Bergman and Jean-Luc Godard used to work at in film to great fanfare - though this is more affecting, I think. It's made at least somewhat palatable to mass tastes by an awesome cast and by the screenwriter's panache. This is art, and not pleasant art. These are real-world nightmares.
To attempt a very quick summary - Philip Seymore Hoffman (perfectly cast here) is a theater director in upscale New York. His wife and child leave, and he becomes increasingly detached from reality The film's slight surrealism reflects his point of view, particularly in how time ceases to have much meaning to him after their departure. He is awarded a McArthur grant, and sets about creating a type of self-reflective living play in a large warehouse space. This effort continues over many years; he throws himself into it looking for meaning in life and for the lost connections to daughter and idealized wife. Many actors involve themselves and the whole effort spirals into itself; he spends his days walking down a street giving notes to an actor who's playing him, and who is giving notes to another actor. The women in his life become doppelgangers and stand ins for one another.
This is wildly imaginative. If you decode it, there's nothing but sadness inside. This kind of thing worked for Tennessee Williams I suppose ... it's not my favorite kind of art. But the level of ambition here is staggering.
Watching this in the wake of Philip Seymore Hoffman's death makes it all the more affecting. In a way he was living chunks of this film out.
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