Steven Soderbergh shot Schizopolis in 1996, while mired in the ghetto of under-distributed arthouse product. He now refers to the film as a personal creative breakthrough, and his assertion is borne out by an ensuing run of prolificacy–from Out Of Sight in 1998 to Ocean's Eleven in 2001–that established him as a critical favorite and a box-office force. Schizopolis itself is an exercise in aggressive cinematic pretension: Its narrative fracturing and purposeful manipulation of color and light merely continue work that Soderbergh began with the underrated heist study The Underneath and the inventively staged Spalding Gray monologue Gray's Anatomy. Schizopolis' specific liberation is keyed to the way it ducks conventional notions of quality and technique. The movie marked Soderbergh's first feature in which he handled cinematography as well as direction, and he cast himself as its twin leads: a lovelorn dentist and a frustrated desk jockey for a self-help empire. The office drone dominates the film's first third, which is loosely about the soul-deadening routine of marriage and work. The dentist pops up in the next third, sleeping with the previous protagonist's wife (played by Soderbergh's own ex-wife, Betsy Brantley) while pining for a dowdy female patient (Brantley again). In the final third, scenes repeat from different perspectives, with different dialogue. The segments are broken up by absurdist blackout sketches and interludes of David Jensen as a wild-card exterminator who speaks in nonsense phrases and occasionally storms into scenes to push people around. If Schizopolis weren't so light-spirited, it'd be easily the most self-indulgent entry in Soderbergh's filmography, outside of his effects-happy Yes concert video 9012 Live. But he defuses criticism by including self-aware shots of himself masturbating and making faces in a mirror, as well as paying homage to his spiritual forebear Richard Lester by naming a character "Lester Richard," and then purposefully killing him off. The nonlinear, surrealist goofing becomes more endearing on repeat viewings, as Soderbergh's riffs on romantic and professional dissatisfaction gradually reveal real heart. The director doesn't discuss the film's personal side on his DVD commentary track; instead, he interviews himself and dryly spoofs his own arrogance by making claims for Schizopolis' genius. The gimmick gets old, but it adds to a kitchen-sink spirit echoed by the one-frame closing credits and the jokey indicia printed on the inside of the DVD cover. For meaning, head to the second commentary track, on which Soderbergh's old college buddies point out that, themes aside, Schizopolis is an inspired argument for playing around.