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Pedro Almodóvar’s The Room Next Door Finds Joy Even as It Stares Down Death

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Pedro Almodóvar’s The Room Next Door Finds Joy Even as It Stares Down Death

As a film critic who’s spent a good part of my life in dark theaters and even darker corners of human existence, I must say that Pedro Almodóvar’s latest offering, “The Room Next Door,” is a poignant, thought-provoking masterpiece. It’s not often that a movie manages to make me laugh, cry, and question my own mortality in the span of two hours, but this one did just that.

For individuals who have watched Pedro Almodóvar’s journey since the beginning, the notion that he, too, is growing older and using his films to explore themes of illness, death, or simply the natural slowdown life brings, can be a tough reality to accept. After all, no one enjoys contemplating their own mortality. However, it can be more painful to contemplate the loss of an artist we admire, particularly someone as vibrant and timeless as Almodóvar. One of his most poignant and impactful pieces, “Pain and Glory” from 2019, delved into the complexities of aging and the struggles of an artist in crisis. His latest work, “The Room Next Door,” premiering at the Venice Film Festival, delves even deeper into the murky emotions surrounding death. Julianne Moore and Tilda Swinton portray Ingrid and Martha, former friends who reconnected after a long absence when Ingrid learned that Martha was battling cancer. Their renewed friendship takes a complex turn.

“The Room Next Door”

Towards the end, an almost ethereal event unfolds: the film concludes with a sense of dusk, a moment of tranquility that catches you off guard. The protagonist, Ingrid, a renowned author, becomes aware of Martha’s illness during a book signing. Despite not seeing each other for years, Ingrid makes a point to visit Martha in the hospital. They reminisce swiftly: Martha, who had been a war correspondent, has a daughter named Michelle, born when she was young. Michelle harbors resentment towards her mother for being distant and for withholding information about Michelle’s father. Martha acknowledges these accusations without defense. However, she yearns for a closer relationship with Michelle, and her serious illness – she is diagnosed with stage three cervical cancer – adds a fresh perspective to their strained bond. She holds onto hope that the experimental treatment will work; she is devastated when she learns it won’t.

And thus, she manages to acquire – as she confides in Ingrid, barely audibly – an illicit drug from the Dark Web, which she believes will bring an end to everything. She has meticulously planned her actions: she intends to leave a note for the police, taking responsibility for her own destiny. She doesn’t want a stranger to find her deceased body. When she deems the moment appropriate, she wishes to know that a companion is nearby – specifically, Ingrid, whom she chooses as her confidante. Initially, Ingrid, who possesses an undercurrent of nervous energy beneath her façade of self-assurance, shows reluctance to participate.

Ingrid has suddenly reappeared in Martha’s life with noble intentions, but Martha is uncertain about her true motives. Interestingly, without Martha knowing, Ingrid has rekindled a platonic relationship with an old shared lover named Damian, portrayed by John Turturro. The renewed friendship between Ingrid and Martha initially appears unstable. Martha has made up her mind to not end her life in her luxurious Fifth Avenue apartment. Instead, she reserves a lavish modern countryside house near Woodstock, offering stunning natural vistas only affording by wealth. Upon arrival, Martha becomes anxious, realizing she left the euthanasia pill behind and insists on immediately returning to Manhattan to retrieve it. Ingrid conceals her irritation; how did she end up in this predicament? The movie momentarily veers into screwball comedy, but the humor is muted due to Martha’s distress.

However, The Room Next Door is gradually heading towards a realm of warmth and harmony – it’s simply not visible to us as yet. At some stage, Martha expresses her anger towards her illness, yet also criticizes the shallow phrases people use when discussing cancer, frequently describing it as a “battle,” a test of strength that somehow gauges one’s virtue. She sarcastically remarks, “If you lose, well, perhaps you simply didn’t fight hard enough.” Given this perspective, it’s not surprising that she wishes to dictate the conclusion of her own tale: “I believe I am entitled to a dignified departure.”

In a gentle rewording, here’s how I would express it: Swinton’s character Martha may be fragile, yet she exudes an ethereal energy reminiscent of a pale moon. Moore, with her rich burgundy-red tresses and penetrating, inquisitive eyes, adds vibrancy to their shared existence. They engage in discussions about books, art, and films: Martha has been pondering the final lines of James Joyce’s “The Dead,” leading them to spend an evening viewing John Huston’s enchanting 1987 adaptation on a rental DVD player. They converse casually about various topics, such as Roger Lewis’ book “Erotic Vagrancy” which explores the relationship between Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, and the reproduction of Edward Hopper’s “People in the Sun” that adorns the hallway of their temporary abode. These seemingly trivial conversations serve as a quiet source of sustenance for them.

It’s a delight to see these two actors perform together. They play off each other in a way that’s both amusing and tense, but eventually they find their rhythm, and the movie follows suit. Cinematography by Eduard Grau gives it an elegant, captivating appearance, with Almodóvarian flair in its exuberant production and costume design. The sets are a harmonious blend of pickle green and tomato red, featuring velvet couches that look artfully worn and walls casually painted cobalt blue. Inbal Weinberg is the production designer, while Bina Daigeler handles the costumes. The visuals are stunning, but they might provoke a sense of guilt. When you realize Martha’s striking, oversized knit pullover could be her last outfit, as she does herself, it makes one question whether it’s appropriate to admire it so much when death is just a small pill away.

As the narrative unfolds, it’s evident that Almodóvar’s fascination with colors and designs isn’t merely an aside; rather, it forms the very core of his storytelling. He crafts a vibrant, enclosed realm for these two characters as they navigate their tumultuous journey together. In this way, he invites us into their tale. The hues of lime, lilac, scarlet, and saffron are not incidental in “The Room Next Door”; instead, they serve as a hidden code, a language of sensuality and aesthetics that underscores the sheer joy of existence. If one could create a jubilant film about mortality, Almodóvar has just accomplished it.

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2024-09-03 06:06

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