Charlie Kaufman’s Anomalisa (2015), co-directed with Duke Johnson, is a stop-motion marvel that wields its tactile artifice to probe the human condition with surgical precision. The film’s most striking element is its visual language: the deliberate artificiality of its puppet protagonists, with their segmented faces and uncanny uniformity, mirrors the protagonist Michael Stone’s existential malaise. This is no mere aesthetic gimmick; the puppets’ identical visages save for Lisa, the “anomaly” externalize Michael’s perception of a world drained of individuality, a suffocating sameness that Kaufman’s screenplay renders with aching clarity. The stop-motion medium, often associated with whimsy, here becomes a vessel for raw, introspective despair, its meticulous craftsmanship amplifying the emotional stakes.

The screenplay, adapted from Kaufman’s own play, is a masterclass in economy and subtext. Michael, a customer service guru voiced with weary nuance by David Thewlis, navigates a Cincinnati hotel with a detachment that borders on the pathological. His fleeting connection with Lisa (Jennifer Jason Leigh) is both tender and tragic, her distinct voice cutting through the monotonous drone of Tom Noonan’s vocal performance as every other character. This sonic choice having one actor voice the world’s uniformity lends a haunting authenticity to Michael’s psychological isolation. Yet, the script falters in its final act, where the ambiguity of Michael’s epiphany feels more like a retreat into vagueness than a meaningful resolution. The emotional weight of his fleeting hope risks being undercut by an ending that leans too heavily on open-endedness.

Jennifer Jason Leigh’s vocal performance as Lisa is the film’s heartbeat. Her hesitant, soulful delivery imbues Lisa with a fragile individuality that makes her both a beacon and a mirror for Michael’s longing. The hotel setting, a claustrophobic labyrinth of muted tones and sterile corridors, enhances the sense of entrapment, its banality a stark contrast to the vividness of Michael’s inner turmoil. The score by Carter Burwell, subtle yet piercing, underscores the emotional undercurrents without overwhelming them.

Anomalisa is not without flaws its pacing occasionally stumbles, and the gender dynamics of Lisa’s role invite scrutiny for leaning into a manic-pixie trope, albeit subverted. Yet, its bold fusion of form and feeling makes it a singular meditation on connection and alienation, a film that lingers like a half-remembered dream.