The Room Next Door (2024)
Directed by Pedro Almodóvar
Warner Brothers Pictures, 106 minutes, PG-13 (language, sexual references)
In English
★★
I routinely swear off Pedro Almodóvar films but new ones come out that trumpet that his latest effort is “different.” My bad for getting suckered in. The only thing that’s different about The Room Next Door is that it’s in English, not Spanish. The usual slobbering has reoccurred: The Room Next Door was nominated of 10 Goya awards (Spain’s version of the Oscars), Almodóvar somehow won a Golden Lion trophy in Venice, and praise came from reviewers who still think he’s an auteur.
Nonsense! Almodóvar is the Spanish Woody Allen; both have said everything new they had to say decades ago. Almodóvar shares Allen’s inability to place credible dialogue in the mouth of his actors. Neither has an ear for how people really talk; it’s as if everyone is sitting in a 1970s’ coffee shop amidst pseudo-intellectuals.
Other than a very good performance from Julianne Moore, there’s nothing much to recommend The Room Next Door. Successful author Ingrid (Moore) is signing books for a massive line of fawning fans for her work in which she confesses her deep fear of aging and death. (The movie is based on a Sigrid Nunez novel written during the pandemic.) At the signing, a friend tells Ingrid that Martha (Tilda Swinton) has terminal cancer. Ingrid hasn’t seen Martha for years, but they were close friends when they worked on a magazine before Ingrid became a full-time writer and Martha a war correspondent. Ingrid visits the gaunt Martha at the hospital and the two rekindle their friendship, despite Martha’s insistence that she’s resigned to dying.
As the two reminiscence, the film goes into flashback sequences, especially those involving Martha’s journalistic jaunts, including one involving a photographer (Juan Diego Botto) leaving a warzone knowing his lover, a Spanish priest, is unlikely to survive the rebel onslaught. They also discuss what a great sexual partner Damian (John Turturro) was, with Ingrid dodging Martha’s musing over where he might be, as Ingrid is currently in a relationship with him. An even bigger issue is that Martha has long been estranged from her daughter Michelle who is angry that Martha never told her who her father is.
As Martha gets sicker, her only desire is to not die alone. She has secured a highly illegal euthanasia pill on the dark web and intends to take it soon. After three friends decline Martha’s request to be with her, she asks Ingrid. It is emphatically something she doesn’t want to do as she’s opposed to suicide and we know how she feels about death. The movie’s title references the deal the two make. Martha rents an amazing house in upstate New York and Ingrid agrees to stay with her, but not in the same room. Ingrid’s room is one floor down from Martha’s and if Ingrid arises and sees Martha’s bedroom door closed, the deed has been done.
If you think about it, it’s maudlin and sad to be sure, but it’s pretty thin for a script. To stretch things out, there’s an appended postscript involving the police and an attempt on Ingrid’s part to assuage Michelle (also Swinton). Wrap it in a bow and play some music that’s “pretty” in syrupy ways. On that score (literally), my longtime standard that if a movie soundtrack is as obvious as banging a hammer on your thumb, it’s overdone. It astounds me that Alberto Iglesias copped a few awards in Europe, as his music is like hitting that thumb with a concrete block.
Moore modulates her moods as needed: sympathetic, scarred bunny, feminist rage, mothering…. You can see why the role might have resonated with a 64-year-old who remains gorgeous, but can see the future. I was, however, surprised that Swinton, one of my favorite actors, was stiff and unconvincing. Even her “American” accent was off; you can hear the King’s English popping out in numerous places. She is, of course, supposed to be mortally ill, but her entire demeanor is such that we know within a half hour there’s no chance she will choose a longer life. Thus, when Martha waxes rhapsodic about scenery or birdsongs, it removes for viewers what could have been an emotional break.
In short, Almodóvar has made a Hallmark movie filled with convention. There’s nothing innovative about this film, not even Swinton playing her own daughter. Give Almodóvar a Golden Turkey.
Rob Weir
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