For the Last Time, I'll Tell You What a "Synecdoche" Is

by Charlie Kaufman 

A lot of you probably saw my new film, Synecdoche, New York, and were blown away. It is a quiet movie, very paced and plotted, smartly telling about redemption, hope, and the fantastic stretches of the mind. Kind of like my mind. But, I'll tell you what--there was a time when Synecdoche had its doubters. Its nay-sayers. Its nervous Nelly-thons. Not my nuanced, layered, and meticulously worded movie script so much as the word, "Synecdoche", itself. Producers had the darndest time just saying the word, let alone spelling it. Usually I just write movies, Being John Malkovich, Human Nature, Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, Adaptation, and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, just to name them all. When I started writing Synecdoche and blowing my own dangerous mind I thought, I should really direct this thing: you can't trust those actors-turned-movie-directors, like George Clooney. The bastard. You really need to get a guy who's directed music videos. The two of them were busy so I said to myself, I'm going to adapt my own movie script into a movie. I don't think anyone has ever done that before, adapted their own script into a movie. So, I sat down to dinner with Harvey Weinstein thinking, he probably doesn't want me to direct! He probably thinks I'm crazy! But the little jerk just couldn't get over the title and I ended up explaining it to him for an hour.

We went somewhere swanky, like Melisse or Spago. I can't remember where exactly, I've gone through four layers of dimension-fabric-space-time since then, writing thirty-two more scripts on invisible dimension paper. BUT, the place was nice, with candles, and I ordered French duck with anjou sauce, Harvey's favorite. He had the script with him, sitting on the table, so I asked him: 

"So, you read the script?"

"Well, yes and no."

"Yes and no? What does that mean?"

"Yes, I read the title."

"And?"

He held the script up and its pages flapped like an accordion in some Croatian midget freak show. A revue of sorts. Very old-timey...... And maybe the midget freakshow jugglers don't want to be jugglers at all. They want to be midget farmers, instead. And, and they find portals to the Croation PM's brain in the soil of their beat patches. And they grab the reigns of government to liberate all Croation midget freakshow shows! Hold on a second, let me write that down...

"I don't know, Charlie. What is this? What's this 'Synecdoche' thing?"

"It's a literary device. A linguistic term."

"I don't know, Charlie. It's an awfully arty word--and it kind of sounds like Schenectady but it's not Schenectady. And here, the second part of the title, I see you've added "New York." What's going on here? Am I missing something?"

He began to flip through the script, his eyes narrowing, like he was in pain...The pain that comes when you've read too much. Too much...too much...Tolstoy! Tolstoy. And you actually think you are a Russian viscount in Votkinsk. And, and, and you walk around your suburban Connecticut mall talking to people in Russian and writing on long stips of parchment, living in your own dangerous, Russian Votkinsky, literate mind! Hold on, let me write that down. 

"A synecdoche, Harvey Weinstein, is when one part of an object, body or form comes to denote the entirety of that object, body, or form."

"Example." He said, holding up his finger. 

"Field hands. When you say you have three field hands you really mean you have three workers."

"I don't know, Charlie. I'm not into migrant work culture. What else?"

"Well," I said. "A 'Crown' is a synecdoche for a king. Wait," I dropped my fork, "I think that is actually a metonym...maybe a crown is a synecdoche for a head, or a face. I forget."

Harvey was beginning to sweat and I could feel the nervous tapping of his leg under the table. He looked side to side at the other tables, "Chaaaaar-lie." He held his head, "Synecdoche, metonym, crown...all these, these WORDS. Don't you have a movie example?"

I stood up, my napkin dropping to the floor, "All right goddamit. I'll make it really simple: A lens is a synecdoche for a camera. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Hollywood is a synecdoche for the entire film industry. A roll of film is a synecdoche for film. You know how you never see Liam Neeson's legs in a movie?"

"Of course." 

"Well, Liam Neeson's torso is a synecdoche for his legs. A computer is a synecdoche for a table. A table a synecdoche for a chair. A chair a synecdoche for the floor. The floor a synecdoche for the earth. The earth a synecdoche for the universe. The universe a synecdoche for more universes and so on and so forth forever and ever. Goddamit, synecdoche's are everywhere!!!"

I collapsed back in my chair. I hadn't felt so drained of energy since I last wrote a deeply moving script. Harvey just looked at me for a good long while. He took a few more bites of duck and dabbed the corners of his mouth, standing up slowly. 

He stuck out his hand, "Goddamit, son. You've got yourself a picture deal!"

"For how much?" I asked, hopeful, standing up to meet him. 

"A billion dollars!" He laughed, deeply, as deep and low as the black recesses of my mind. "You crazy sonuvabitch. You've done it again!"

And that's the story of the first, and last, time I've ever had to explain "synecdoche" to someone.