It's not. It fails utterly. It tries to be clever meta-fiction about the levels of reality involved when a Polanski-clone director recreates his wife's murder in his hidden-camera-filled house with unwitting, improv-ing actors. It ends up just being a huge mess that doesn't make a lick of sense. What should have been a clever, intricate narrative just flaps around helplessly like a stranded porpoise.
In Rose's defence (and he appears to have never spoken about the project), it looks very much like a film that has been ruined by producer interference, with lots of random scary bits bolted on, never mind whether they make any sense or not.
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