Director: Pedro Almodóvar
Writer: Pedro Almodóvar, Sigrid Nunez
Stars: Julianne Moore, Tilda Swinton, John Turturro
Synopsis: Ingrid and Martha were close friends in their youth, when they worked together at the same magazine. After years of being out of touch, they meet again in an extreme but strangely sweet situation.
Every lover of cinema has encountered Pedro Almodóvar’s work. The Spaniard is one of the most recognized international voices; his stories of desire, identity, and passion have connected with thousands of cinephiles. While his voice and vision have remained the same, Almodóvar’s style has evolved throughout the decades–from a slight provocateur to a melodrama filmmaker to one with a more mature tone. Almodóvar began his career with striking features in the 1980s, which, by that time, were considered very provocative. The golden shower in Pepi, Luci Bom. The outrageous crew of Madridian mischief-makers in Labyrinth of Desire. Nacho Martinez self-pleasuring to clips of Mario Bava’s most violent scenes in Matador. These are just a few examples of the type of prodding and rousing that Almodóvar used to do back then.
Within that provocation, his ideas and themes’ crux were intact. Today’s audience would consider some scenes problematic, though he still found many ways to explore how his characters’ identities changed and their desires met. And that, in my books, helped him converge onto his next stage, the Douglas Sirk-inspired melodramas of the 2000s and forward. His story designs felt different, even if his characters were always complex and broken, but ultimately intriguing. You sensed the essence of Pedro Almodóvar’s oeuvre through these new narrative contraptions that blend the throwback 40s style with his colorful portraits. Many directors have tried to inhabit a Sirk-like world in their stories. However, none have contained it like the Spaniard.
Lately, Almodóvar has reached a new stage in his career, one that is more fully-fledged. This began with Pain and Glory, a film in which he explored his past through a reflection of his desires and art (and how, through art, he expresses his most secret desires). It was followed by Parallel Mothers, in which he takes a more political angle to critique and observe an untalked-about happening in Spain’s history. That is not the only way he is reinventing himself during this latter stage of his career. He is now dabbling in English, doing projects not in his native tongue for the first time. Almodóvar started with two shorts, The Human Voice and Strange Way of Life–a segway into this new strand of pictures and the latter one that recalls his past.
Now, Almodóvar is doing his English-language feature with The Room Next Door (La habitación de al lado, the Centerpiece of this year’s New York Film Festival), an adaptation of Sigrid Nunez’s 2020 novel, ‘What Are You Going Through’. While he isn’t in top form or contain the melodramatic power of his previous two feature-length projects, Almodóvar gets the best out of his actresses, Tilda Swinton and Julianne Moore, both of which fit perfectly with his style, and depends on them to uplift the frail screenplay on which the film stands.
The Room Next Door centers around a pair of longtime friends who have reunited after many years due to an illness one of them has. After a lengthy separation, these two souls, hindered in different ways, come together and put aside their severance upon the matter. However, it still lingers upon their many conversations; distance causes bonds to break slowly, yet these two still have a fire to it that curates a shared empathy and love for their memories together. First, we meet Ingrid (Julianne Moore), the novel’s previously unnamed narrator, at a New York book signing for the release of her new book, ‘On Sudden Deaths’. The novel seems to connect with plenty of people, particularly young women, one of whom asks Ingrid to sign it as an apology gift for her girlfriend.
“It won’t happen again”, Ingrid inscribed to the young fan. However, these words also reflect Ingrid’s past and the experiences that will come further in the film. Some things won’t happen again, whether because of a mistake or because she won’t have the chance to do so on other occasions, whatever it may be. In this case, it is Martha’s (Tilda Swinton) diagnosis of stage three cervical cancer. The two have shared many moments throughout the years, including secrets, writings, and even a lover, later revealed to be played by John Turturro, who does not acclimate to Almodóvar’s way of storytelling. Ingrid and Martha fell apart when the latter went overseas as a war correspondent. But their works always seemed to tie them one way or another.
The only thing is that through writing, you can feel the psychological state one is in, yet not one’s physical condition, which is why Ingrid feels guilty about not knowing about her condition and immediately reaches out to her. As a form of apology, she vows to visit her more in the hospital. The phrase “It won’t happen again”, a minute detail that can escape many viewers’ minds, makes its way into the narrative again. Memories begin to play on-screen of a time past when the two didn’t think it would run out. Looking at the scenes now, I feel like they are a dream, very distant yet palpable due to the actresses’ work. Catch-up conversations and shared experiences pile into scenes filled with character-defining and compulsory exposition.
Of course, you know that the “filling in the gaps” of their relationship would be placed in the film one way or another. You see one of the main problems with The Room Next Door from these early conversations. In the past, Almodóvar’s pictures were coveted in emotion because of the dependence on the actor’s expressions–their mannerisms, facials, and eyes told the story hidden from us watching rather than using words to dictate this psychological pandering. You remember the scene in the coffee shop with Manuela and Lola in All About My Mother or the phone call between Salvador and Federico–another conversation between two people, like Ingrid and Martha, who have spent years distant after being connected deeply in the past–in Pain and Glory.
These are just two examples of how the actors’ performances and pauses do more work than the screenplay on many occasions. It is full of fervor. The incandescent feeling they bring translates to the vibrant atmosphere of Almodóvar’s world, accompanied by a colorful set filled with blood-red walls, shining green seats, and sky-blue carpets. However, even though the actresses work well within Pedro’s scope in The Room Next Door, the reading is more loquacious than expressionistic. The Spaniard is in a verbose state in his first script in the English language, which has one thinking about what could have happened during its translation.
The spiritedness of his work, which separates his oeuvre from that of other Spanish filmmakers, was also the reason for transcribing the screenplay to another language. Their stories are interesting, yet occasionally, a specific dialogue feels off-place. The spirited sensation building through the melancholy gets lost amidst the prating screenplay. During the hospital sessions, you see this the most; the most expository moments are hindered because Almodóvar reveals too much instead of slowly uncovering everything via his tender magic. The story regains power when the film switches from the busy streets to the lakeside.
Martha’s treatments are not working anymore; the pain she feels is excruciating. Martha plans to euthanize herself with a pill she bought on the black market. The problem isn’t her indecisiveness of not wanting to go through with the act but doing it alone. She does not want to do this by herself. Martha asks Ingrid to accompany her on a quick retreat to a lavish lakeside housing to cement the deed. The film takes its title from the room in which Martha will take the pill as Ingrid awaits her final breath. Deeper secrets are revealed about their lives, whether their marital status or estranged daughters; the latter comes up as a ridiculous late third-act reveal that does not work.
The interesting factor from these broader conversations is how Almodóvar explores death and creativity–and how they intertwine. It is fascinating that death seems like the pet topic of many films screened at this year’s New York Film Festival. There are many films about our fear of death and worries about what happens after, all of which are seen differently. Almodóvar has covered the topic before, although none explicitly discussed existential angst. More so, the topic is felt in the background of his works rather than the central theme. Ingrid is a character who is very much afraid of dying. It is one of the reasons why she attaches herself even more to Martha and her decision to die by assisted suicide.
Her frustrations and dread-induced panic immediately come into play upon seeing her dear friend in that state. Internally, Ingrid questions the reasonings of Martha’s use of the pill. By talking with one another, listening, and recording memories and experiences in her mind, Ingrid understands her decision. Ingrid believes that she is too afraid to do such an act but realizes that people must be given a choice to end their own lives if the pain, in this case from stage three cervical cancer, is too unbearable to endure and the procedures don’t have any more effect. Martha and Ingrid are writers in different branches of that world, one scribing about war and the other more novelistic pieces. However, the two equally feel that their lives in that profession made them see everything differently.
Ingrid listens to Martha’s stories about her experiences in various fields, including falling in love with one of them. As Swinton delivers her monologues, Moore is put to the sideline in an understated role. But she captures that appreciation and carries out the memories with a pretty subtle whisper to her breath. You see how Ingrid understands that she must cherish this little time together they have left together. It grows a tad repetitive. There is an echoing of these scenarios throughout the film, which makes it less cinematic or without that splendor one is accustomed to seeing from Almodóvar. Regardless, the director’s purpose and crux are clear.
As he stated moments after he won the Venice Film Festival’s top prize, the Golden Lion, The Room Next Door is a criticism of the countries that have euthanasia as an illegal act. Like his previous feature, Parallel Mothers, Almodóvar speaks about political and societal topics through the melodrama he is known for, which covers the film with a second layer to the narrative and the characters’ interactions. It is more evident here than in his aforementioned 2021 movie. However, the effectiveness of this commentary is still rising. For that, I applaud him, although I wish he had added his usual subversiveness when speaking about the topic and death in general.
One of the things I have been finding quite fascinating is the recent rise of filmmakers, most of whom have been in the industry for decades, speaking about mortality through the self-analysis of their grieving processes. The most recent examples are Paul Schrader with Oh, Canada and David Cronenberg with The Shrouds, both coincidentally playing at the festival’s Main Slate alongside Almodóvar’s film. The former adapted the book of one of his closest friends to honor him and reflect on his past, riddled with secrets, his present affected by illness, and what the next couple of years will look like. It is very personal, more so than one would expect. Through the story of a fictionalized character, Schrader taps into his own travels, successes, and sorrows in a beautiful and tangible piece that is unlike anything he has done before.
The latter has Cronenberg trying to pour his heart out in cinematic form after the passing of his wife, creating a unique concept about seeing your loved ones decompose and interlacing it with a conspiracy theory. This theory is not meant to be looked at at face value; it is more so the reflection of one questioning existence, life, and death–the various stages of grief, mourning, and broken hearts. These are two of the most recent unique portrayals of acclaimed veteran directors tackling death in a visionary and personal manner. Then there’s The Room Next Door, which does have Almodóvar’s stylistic panache that covers all of his sets in such beautiful colors that reflect the vivacity of the characters while creating a parallel to the downheartedness they are currently facing.
Regarding looks, Almodóvar knows how to make his works pop. But this latest one does not add that personal layer about his thoughts and insecurities about mortality and loss. You get a minor taste of it, albeit punctured in a weak screenplay that fails to handle one character’s acceptance of death and the other’s rejection. The aforementioned films had an intense personal attachment in each moment. The Room Next Door does not contain such outside of the melancholy that rises through the melodrama mold. Considering how poignant and emotionally commanding his two previous feature-length projects were in spades, it is a shame this is the case. This film got lost in translation.