A massive play mimics a man's own existence in a meta-construction both fascinating and frustratingly disorienting. Frequently morbid, this downer of a film thankfully inserts dashes of neurotic humor. Predictably, the huge statement becomes muddled in it's own creation.
It's almost an accidental masterpiece on the flippance and shallowness of postmodern philosophy, but ruins even this by means of its own longwindedness and self-importance. At its best moments, it's almost a poor late-period Woody Allen film. A scripted film pretending to be an unscripted film pretending to be a scripted film, enjoyable only for readers of the New Yorker, a resounding "meh" through time and space.
Beginning the film as the day to day life of a hypochondriac it transcends into the making of that film being made as time accelerates, or in other words over analysing the fuck out of your life that has a depressing tone when you can't keep track on your own events and making an interpretation on your own life relating to it. It's genius how deep this rabbit hole goes and the threads all come together at the end.