The Room Next Door: Savor the Good Times
almodovar has done it again
The Room Next Door was hands-down one of my most awaited films of the year. Pedro Almodovar may be my favorite international filmmaker working today. For over forty years, his iconoclastic style has challenged conventions and form, cementing himself as a singular auteur whose films are instantly recognizable. So to hear early last year that his long-awaited English-language feature debut will be coming by the end of the year excited me to no end. Over the past four years, Almodovar has been making trial short films to grow acquainted with the English language: The Human Voice with Tilda Swinton and Strange Way of Life with Ethan Hawke. While, The Room Next Door failed to garner any Awards Buzz, it did indeed win the prestigious Golden Lion at this past Venice Film Festival, even besting The Brutalist. So, is Pedro Almodovar’s English-language debut a worthy addition to a stunning filmography? Or should he go back to Spain?
What’s it all about?
Adapted from Sigrid Nunez’s novel What Are You Going Through, the film explores the rekindled friendship between author Ingrid (Julianne Moore) and former colleague, friend Martha (Tilda Swinton). After years apart, the two reconnect when, at a book signing, Ingrid learns of Martha’s terminal cancer diagnosis. Martha shares that her daughter has stopped speaking to her after learning the truth about her father, who has since passed away, leaving her indifferent to Martha's condition. Unable to withstand the painful chemo treatments and unable to fathom months of prolonged suffering, she decides to take a black-market euthanasia pill to end her life, content with what she’s left behind. But before doing so, she ropes Ingrid in a strange, yet sweet plan to accompany her to a cabin in upstate New York so that she can have someone she can trust to be in the room next door once she passes on. The ultimate friendship test of sorts. Hesitant but supportive, the death-phobic Ingrid embarks on a bittersweet journey where she confronts her fears, finding a renewed appreciation for life through the memories Martha leaves behind.
Rocky start
I’ll admit that The Room Next Door starts off rocky. Almodovar seemingly stumbles through the English language but finds his groove toward the beginning of the second act. But, the initial moments of the film often feel very stale. Much of the dialogue between Julianne Moore and Tilda Swinton had a very robotic cadence. I was sitting there in the theater wishing Almodovar had brought on another writer to iron out the dialogue’s pacing. Yet, as the film progresses, this initial cadence fades, and the characters and performances gradually evolve into a more natural and cohesive flow. I believe the reason for the film’s turbulent start is Almodovar’s struggles to naturally redevelop the two women’s friendship after years of being out of touch. While we see their relationship evolve throughout the film (more on that later), there’s just a real awkwardness to the way they interact with one another. It felt as though the two were feigning a storied history rather than genuinely sharing one. Almodóvar and his editor, Teresa Font, miss the chance to add visual dynamism to compensate for the writing. Instead, they rely on static setups that frame conversations in a restrained, uninspired way, failing to reflect the evolving relationships between characters.
I also think the initial lack of chemistry stems from Almodovar inserting numerous flashbacks that Martha narrates to Ingrid—stories one would expect close friends to have already shared. If the film had approached the flashbacks and moments of exposition more creatively, it could have dedicated more time to authentically solidifying the relationship between the two leads. The other issue is the quality of the flashbacks is staggeringly poor. The acting is overly campy and sentimental, lacking the assured touch present in the rest of the film. One notable moment features a younger Martha being greeted by her boyfriend (and the father of her daughter) after his harrowing return from Vietnam. In a jarringly blunt exchange, he recounts the horrors of the war with a stark lack of subtlety, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Of course, this can be construed as an instance of campiness (a signature of Almodovar’s style) as the rest of the film indeed features hints of melodrama. Yet, the film’s general essence remains mature and sobering, so as a result, these scenes stick out like a sore thumb. Fortunately, these issues fade away once the film finds its rhythm, confidently carrying through to its conclusion. Ultimately remaining in the rear-view.
Almodovar’s Dazzling Vision
Recent Almodovar films like Pain and Glory or Parallel Mothers have veered toward the restrained, prioritizing unspoken emotions and deeper themes. There’s not an ounce of sentimentality or hokiness even in a film about terminal cancer. These later films often deviate from his early punk, camp roots that were once a protest against the Franco regime. Yet, they retain his visual idiosyncrasy, just dialed down to match his evolving obsessions that come with age. Namely, the wonderful color design. I don’t think there’s a filmmaker out there who pays such close attention to color the way Almodovar does. Sure, many modern films light scenes with fancy neon lights to “look cool” but everything here is intentional. The compositions are made up of bold primary colors that catch your attention like no other. Every detail, down from the furniture and walls to the bags and accessories, is meticulously designed to align with Almodovar's aesthetic while in direct communication with the narrative. Contrasting hues of green and red dominate the film’s palette drawing our attention to the film’s stars. The brilliant set design offers a contrast from Ingrid's cooler, thrifted apartment with Martha's vibrant, slick space, highlighted by bright greens and reds. Even the hospital rooms feature sickly green-toned furniture. It’s incredible how Almodovar masterfully blends Spanish design influences with New York City’s aesthetic, merging American and Spanish sensibilities to reflect the film’s contrasting views on death culturally. It’s truly dazzling to see what Almodovar conjures up with his canvas, crafting scenes with exquisite color and geometry. Alberto Iglesias’ score is equally tantalizing. It’s both soulful and unsettling, blending melodrama and harmony in a way that comes together poignantly, fitting the film like a perfect puzzle piece.
The Dynamic Duo
Julianne Moore, along with Cate Blanchett, are hands down my favorite actresses working in America today. She is joined by another acting titan, Tilda Swinton. They both manage to give such tremendous performances of incredible depth and feeling. Even though their chemistry wasn’t clicking off the bat, the two find their groove as they settle into an almost symbiotic relationship. Moore serves as the audience's surrogate, guiding us through her fears and desperation as she grapples with the impossible task at hand. Despite being a successful, independent author, there’s a sense of uneasiness and doubt in the way she behaves to the point where she’s overly understanding to a fault. The job of dealing with the loss of a great friend while keeping a smile, and avoiding making Martha uncomfortable is an impressive high-wire act Moore pulls off brilliantly. While some may question her loyalty in yielding to such a demanding task that causes immense internal pain, it’s clear her actions stem from a place of love. Swinton also evokes immense restraint and love despite physically holding back the pain eating her from the inside out. She very effectively conveys the journey from cynical hopelessness to acceptance so gradually and beautifully. These two characters begin in different worlds but soon coalesce once Martha departs as Almodovar stunningly weaves two distinct people.
Savor the Days and the People
Honestly, there were times throughout the film, when I found myself neither well-read enough nor lived enough to truly appreciate the film’s wisdom. The perspective and takeaways on death in The Room Next Door are things that most people either never find out or discover too late. There’s one conversation in particular between Damian (Turturro), Ingrid, and Martha’s former lover, and Ingrid where the former’s pessimism brushes up against the latter’s newfound optimism. Damian, a staunch environmentalist, launches a tirade about global warming and politics, questioning how much longer “all this” can continue. It’s been a constant theme in the films of the past year: “where do we go now”? She challenges his defeatist attitude, asserting that his inability to find joy undermines any chance of truly living. In doing so, she comes to accept that, despite suffering, one must still find pleasure. Fascinatingly, the film never invokes faith in any literal sense. No reference to sin, God, or the afterlife. All the pleasure and memories are firmly tangible, sometimes even carnal. Things like books, movies, the environment, and intellectualism all give life meaning, finding spirituality in basic existence rather than searching for it in the skies. Instead, Ingrid learns from Martha to savor every moment we share with friends and loved ones before we go, enjoying life for as long as we can. Because what other way is there? There’s a scene that stands out when the film flashbacks to Iraq where Martha’s covering two rebels in a relationship who make love despite the ongoing strife. It is symbolic of the film’s overall thesis that love and friendship can outlast suffering in the literal and the abstract. Those are the moments that truly matter and help one come to terms with the acceptance of death. Life is only as good as the people you spend it with and the love you share. These all might feel like simple ideas to the point of cliche but most fail to grasp nonetheless.
Truly Transcendent
With The Room Next Door, Almodovar offers a beautifully restrained yet deeply hypnotic exploration of grief, friendship, and the power of love through suffering. The film delves into friendship, the fear of death, and the desire to retain control in a world that constantly slips away. All this, while remaining a joyful and lasting meditation on life’s fleeting nature. He showcases a mature perspective that blends the Spanish sensibility that death is a natural part of life with the Western fears of mortality. While many older filmmakers tread familiar territory that made them famous (nothing wrong with it), I always appreciate those who branch out and maturely tackle their own mortality as Scorsese did in The Irishman. Similarly, Almodovar subverts the typical portrayal of death, focusing the narrative on the living coming to terms with death rather than the dying. Almodovar finds that even in the face of sorrow, there is a profound beauty in how we live and love.
I'm hoping to watch this in the coming days. I've only heard good things, but I was already excited when I saw that this is Almodovar's English-language debut.