Synecdoche: 2/10

"This is tedious," says the wrinkled cleaning lady. "There's nothing there."

She's talking about life and the play she's rehearsing for. She might just as well have been speaking about this film. For not only is Synecdoche tedium in its grandest form. It's incomprehensible, depressing and, at more than two hours, it drags on for the eternity that the film seeks to show doesn't exist.

This film has - once more - shown me that critics have their heads so far up their own arses that they can only see film through shit-tinted goggles - so, when they see shit films, they actually look good. Either that, or they're shown different films altogether. How else can you explain the fulsome praise lavished on this film, or others, such as L' Emploi du temps, which make you consider having your nails pulled out with pliers as an enhanced evening of entertainment.

So what's Synecdoche about? I don't really know. Something about a successful - yet sickly - theatre director who loses track of life, time and his family. There are about three moments during the film when you'll laugh. But that's hardly adequate compensation for having to endure this drivel.

Which just goes to show - if you want an honest review of a film, read Grazia magazine rather than Time Out!