The NYFF Movie Review: Pedro Almodóvar’s The Room Next Door
By Ross
Spain | 2024 | 107m | English
After making its North American premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival, The Room Next Door, a film based on a novel by Sigrid Nunez, lands as the Centerpiece film at the New York Film Festival. Naturally, as it seems that almost every one of Pedro Almodóvar’s films (“Pain and Glory“; “All About My Mother“) finds some sort of special placement at this fabulous Film Festival. Rightly so, as so many are pure works of art, both emotional and visual. I’ve seen numerous films of his for the first time on the screen at the NYFF, but this one is special, as it marks Almodóvar’s first English language film and I was thrilled as always to see his films here in New York at this particular film festival.
The film, his 23rd feature, is, as expected, layered and drenched with eye-catching colors and visually intoxicating takes, apartments, and scenes, lovingly embracing New York, both the city and upstate. His eye, thanks to Eduard Grau’s exquisite cinematography, translates beautifully, finding communion with two old female friends. Rekindling a friendship that wandered away from itself many years ago, these two women find connection in their uniqueness while also dealing with the impossible task of navigating life and control over one’s own death.
Ingrid, an author, played to empathetic perfection by Julianne Moore (“Far From Heaven“; “Boogie Nights“), is seated, signing copies of her new book at the famed Rizzoli’s Bookstore. She radiates warmth and compassion, with a sly edge of nervous wit, engaging with all who have come to see her. The book is about death, but more importantly, the fear of it. We aren’t quite sure how she writes about this topic, nor do we understand the root of this fear, but she floats it out casually to one particular fan, just in time to tune us in before she learns that her old friend, Martha, played cooly by Tilda Swinton (“Snowpiercer“; “Orlando“) is in the hospital, diagnosed with cancer. And it doesn’t look good for her.
She visits Martha, and the friendship between the two is re-engaged, at first a bit shakily, but over time, their bond deepens with the sharing of memories and experiences. We don’t learn much about Moore’s Ingrid during these visits, beyond her emotive responses to Martha’s world, but we do become immersed in Swinton’s character and the world she inhabited. Her unpacking of history, trauma, love, and her acceptance of death is laid out for Ingrid to ingest, and Ingrid does it with a caring engagement that seems natural and honest, especially for the gifted Moore.
Swinton, on the other hand, is given the task of laying out layers upon layers of emotional history, cooly and carefully; about her daughter and their disconnected relationship, and the terribly sad story of her daughter’s father (Alex Høgh Andersen) and his ultimate destruction in a blaze of courage and semi-glory, albeit somewhat screamingly delusional. But as delivered in the dialogue set out between the two of them, it carries a level of disjointedness that never really seeps in deep and with emotional clarity. There is something stilted in the delivery of those stories, as spoken by Swinton, and in the film’s visual representation of them, which feels somewhat plastic and stiff, no matter how colorful they are crafted and expanded. The younger version of Martha, played engagingly by Esther McGregor (“Babygirl“) gives a stellar performance, giving us clarity in those warm carrying eyes, so much so, that it’s hard to connect them to Swinton’s odd tight composure and stilted delivery.
Eventually, we get to the conflict and dilemma hanging in the background, somewhat clumsily distracted by story after story that never really finds their weight and worth, even the tragic story of Martha’s lover and father to her child. Martha is going to die from the cancer that is spreading inside her, and although tired and suffering from brain fog, she still seems present. And clear-minded enough to ask Ingrid to accompany her to a place far away from all that she knows so she may take a euthanasia pill behind a closed door. She wants to be in charge of her life and take control of her suffering to an ending on her own terms. It’s a big ask, as Ingrid is deeply and deathly afraid of death, and although Martha is not asking her to do anything other than be in The Room Next Door, the discomfort is palpable, and Ingrid’s anxiety, obvious.
Ingrid eventually agrees, after spending some time talking to Damian, a former lover of both of these women, played with passion by John Turturro (“Quiz Show“) as a writer overwhelmed and preoccupied with the destruction of the planet from climate change. It’s a theoretical construct, framing all the characters around the very different outlooks they have on life and living. They each live in a framing of optimism, pessimism, or the acceptance of all that is coming, presented in the beauty of nature and the sound of birds in the morning. Basic serenity is what Martha is talking about, even when she doesn’t sound radiate authenticity or serenity. Yet, it’s a clever heady construct by Almodóvar, that unfortunately never really finds its authentic laid-out attachment to the material and to the characters in his film, maybe because it’s pushed forward almost too hard and with too sharp a stick to take the ideas in emotionally.
The film still holds together, thanks to those gorgeous visual markers that are all Almodóvar’s; the fierce intense friendships of women dealing with heartbreaking dilemmas, the visual splendor of the scenery, and the way he moves through it all with patience, grace, and care. But there are far too many moments that make you lean back out from the energy that is trying to pull us in. The best example of this is the scene at the gym with the spectacularly handsome and sexy Latin personal trainer. There was little in it that felt honest and meaningful, beyond giving us angles and framing to look at this man and to imagine his non-hug embrace of an overwhelmed woman. It just made me giggle, when it really shouldn’t have.
There’s also a drawn-out scene of Swinton’s Martha driving through the war-torn Iraqi landscape to ask a few simplistic and unrealistic questions to a man who is risking his life by staying behind. It throws an unreported and unpublished story into the mix and delivers an awkwardly scripted conversation of love and war on a return plane ride with Martha’s fellow news correspondent and photographer that had little meaning beyond delivering an idea that was already presented and played with. And Swinton’s performance in some of these framings feels as false as the lines being delivered.
Yet, she lives with these wars, every day, she tells Ingrid, paralleling her work as a wartime news correspondent with her battle with cancer. She discusses mortality and redemption over tea before a movie (at the Lincoln Center, drawing chuckles from the crowd in the Walter Reade Theater), and we align with her desire for control over her body and her destiny. It’s clear where we are heading, and even though they had one overly drawn-out false start settling into the glorious Woodstock, NY house up in the country, the negotiations are basically completed, and the bonding and birdsongs can now begin with all the simple pleasures of two women engaging in the most gorgeous of backdrops.
Moore delivers this complex woman flawlessly, bringing passion and clarity to her narrative, even as we watch her almost vibrate with discomfort. Her morning climb up the stairs is filled with dread and fear, wordlessly, yet Swinton, on the other hand, never really is able to pull us in, inhabiting a stiff and tired body stiffly, with few moments of quality depth and desired magic. Her lines feel clunky and compromised, possibly on purpose to either signify her failing capacity to think, or maybe, Almodóvar’s latest is trying hard to embrace a kind of abstract lyric poetry that lives inside the often-mentioned film of James Joyce’s “The Dead” and the snow that falls in the final scene of both of these films.
Either way, Swinton’s presentation, especially when she reappears for an almost comic second act, does little to engage. Visually the film is breathtakingly still and beautiful, but with far too many awkward moments of stilted dialogue, unneeded scenes, and visual memories that hold little weight in the end. This film is not exactly a commentary on the right to die, although I must say, from my personal experience, I am forever grateful to live in a country, Canada, where a person can make that call for themselves. My father did that, asking to be delivered out of the pain of cancer with dignity and a sense of control with the help of his primary care doctor. Similarly, the film is also a political commentary on climate change and the destruction of our planet which is approaching faster than we realize. And if we don’t start paying more attention to it, we will be experiencing the destruction sooner than we imagine.
But in reality, Almodóvar’s The Room Next Door is more about friendship, love, and care, layered with compassion and acceptance of our fate and our need for autonomy. I can’t say that I was emotionally pulled in as much as I wanted to be, but I was never completely outside of that house either. Connection and honest engagement with our faults and our frailties are clearly important, but it’s our understanding of choice and the vibrancy of life that is paramount, in the end. And I hope I have the same honesty and clarity when I come face to face with my inevitable ending with some sense of dignity and control.
