The first English-language full-length film from the out Spanish director is a histrionic event full of death and responsibility…
“Survival seems almost disappointing.”
Oscar-winning writer and director Pedro Almodovar has an incredible following among the LGBTQ+ community. For good reason. The out helmer knows a thing or two about what makes for fascinating stories, often set to a theatrical score that boosts the campiness of his projects.
Regarded as one of the unique collaborators with the frequent casting of Antonio Banderas, Penelope Cruz, and other A-list talent over the years, Almodovar has carved out a lane in cinema that showcases stories full of bright colors, complex characters, and unrelenting awkwardness. His latest adventure in the film space, The Room Next Door, sees the auteur in his first English-language feature-length feature, coming off the heels of his English-language short film from last year, Strange Way of Life. This time, The Room Next Door continues Almodovar’s signature melodramatic look and feel but doesn’t create enough room for his actors to flourish.
Based on the novel What Are You Going Through by Sigrid Nunez, The Room Next Door stars Julianne Moore as noted author Ingrid Parker, who learns an old friend, Martha (Tilda Swinton), is sick in the hospital. The two reconnect when Ingrid visits her cancer-stricken compadre, leading to a series of events that demonstrate true friendship, which means years can go by, and you can pick up right where you left off. Martha is a renowned and brilliant journalist with The New York Times who has covered war-torn regions of the globe from the front lines.
Though they share a past full of empathy and attachment, the two women also enjoyed separate love affairs with the dashing Damian (John Turturro), who shows back up in Ingrid’s life just as she’s dealing with her friend’s imminent death. The trio’s shared experiences, including Martha’s insistence on reuniting with her adult daughter before she passes, give the film a complex nature that is sorely needed. The past comes to confront the present in devious ways when Martha asks Ingrid to accompany her on one last holiday, where the unwell journalist intends to take a euthanasia pill and prepare for the long sleep.
The Room Next Door might be Pedro Almodovar’s most straightforward, albeit slightly campy, addition to his lengthy filmography. Though Martha’s emotions swing from euphoria to depression in a matter of milliseconds, the two lead performers feel stiff and wooden throughout the film’s progress. Much of this is attributed to Almodovar’s dialogue, which simply doesn’t sound like human beings speaking to one another. The film reads like a play and not in any sort of meaningful way.
The movie is melodramatic schlock with an appropriate score to accompany it. For two characters with immense depth and intelligence, their conversations feel empty, and the predictable ending reroutes Ingrid’s path into accusations of criminality that fall flat upon execution. The most surprising element to this otherwise forgettable film is that, for all of the talk about Martha’s estranged daughter Michelle, when the character does, in fact, show up, it’s almost laughable when the actress playing Michelle is finally revealed.
One could almost hear Pedro Almodovar cackling behind the camera when Michelle appears for the first time as if it were an inside joke that only the director could understand.
For a film filled with two of the greatest living acting legends, The Room Next Door offers very little in terms of dealing with death with dignity. In true Almodovar form, the fashionable architecture and designs of the scenes, imbued colors that enhance every piece of wardrobe Martha wears, and the trendy artwork featured don’t make up for the contrived conversations every character has with one another. There are moments of pure camp mixed with dull chitchat that seems to go on far too long and a queer elephant in the room that hardly ever materializes.
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