Synchronic, unsurprisingly, greets by defenestration of cell wall—the yawn-jerking transactional equivalent of sexual dimorphism—which is at the same time, an impelling urge to resolve and reconstitute the reality of drug experience from its tatters in the Real, to salvage the unsalvageable (being that a drug is a psychotic nucleus the moment it changes hands). Quickly its cultivated fakery is apparent and rueful, of an unseen magnitude of scandal, looking much in its element like prodigal Eye-opener, meets backwoods stippling, meets salacious indigenous piggy-backing, meets bad actor—none of which encounter psychedelic exposition as has been set, and soon the film’s condescension is so arrogant and floaty I need to break.
Returning, Synchronic aggressively tenders its hand for identification like an average drug-film. I notice it has its wires and plugs in the wrong chronological holes, but guilelessly passes this off into plot, and that while choosing education over apodeictic doodles, its lite impetus goes rather poorly with its cursive snuff, and that notwithstanding, it actually denudes experience just like it does its proponent surplus—from shock flippantly injected to ecology, to awkward uniform intervention, professional courtesy-cum-apathy, and needle-stick injury. I realize, the frequent problem with playing professionals in movies is that, the shabby authority of attendance is aggressively broken from modality—hence a nearly universal artlessness—and, being the only way these characters can be derelicted from selfish duty, shoved and shoehorned also insofar as praxis. Entertainment treats the druggy drawing room like an aseasonal cabbage patch—as basal, pejorative, not even cooly spaced—and then makes a wild parabolic dance of stowing its empathy in caskets and creators, of being incapable even in a thoughtful stretch of fruiting the solipsistic bodies of self-object, and Synchronic for its part pounds the Symbolic in its mortar and sows the dust in an effort to grow meaning. In other words, the film—albeit not uniquely—embraces the logistic of infantilistic narcissism over nature, but oblates and ultimately castrates their commonality, or rather, that unique synthesis which creates and conceals the spiritualism and virtuous manifold of addiction—and so it is a case of legitimation and authority, of characterological as opposed to individual, disorder. Further, it somehow makes an analogical tragedy of nothing but reverie, of phantasmagoria, and school supplies and organizing principles of the brain, which divorced from a cinematic reality of smooth impressionism and mimesis, shows nothing but failed euphoria. It partakes of free will like it might a commodity, all the while lacking prosocial lubricant, resulting in a perpetual train of awkward baggage; finally it sets a faltering and exotic course to brotherly love, of all readymade places, which is more or less the anamnesis of the quixotic drug experience—showing just how little it really showed, without, after all, being enticing. And most troublingly of all, the film clearly strives to give off the whole of black experience, particularly of trauma and work-related stress, to petty exploration.
