Some favorites - his Synecdoche, NY
review. Choice excerpt:
Charlie Kaufman. Oy vay. I have hated every incomprehensible bucket of pretentious, idiot swill ever written by this cinematic drawbridge troll. But nothing that has belched forth from his word processor so far—not the abominable Being John Malkovich, the asinine Adaptation (Meryl Streep even worse than in Mamma Mia!), the artery-clogging Confessions of a Dangerous Mind (Chuck Barris from “The Gong Show” a secret operative for the C.I.A.?), not even the jabberwocky of Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind—prepared me for a bottom feeder like Synecdoche, New York. It is extremely doubtful that you will sit through all two-hours-plus of this obnoxious drivel—in fact, the fool producers who actually put up the money to finance it owe you a prize if you do—but even if Hollywood bought the myth of Charlie Kaufman, the latest Hollywood example of “the emperor’s new clothes,” as a writer … whatever did he do to convince sane people he could be a director, too? His directorial feature debut reminds me of the spiteful, neurotic brat kicked out of school for failing recess who gets even by throwing himself in front of a speeding school bus.
Or The Limits of Control
, which I know lots of respectable critics trashed as well, but which really really REALLY makes me want to find his "Ghost Dog" review:
As bad movies go, a nightmare called The Limits of Control can’t go fast enough to suit me. This is an empty, boring sedative by Jim Jarmusch, a writer-director with not enough talent to be either. He’s been getting away with murder for years, serving scraps of gibberish like Ghost Dog, Dead Man and Mystery Train that nobody except the fools who finance them actually sees.
Pure, undiluted crap, this is the worst movie since Synecdoche, New York.