Venice '24: "The Room Next Door"
Friday, September 6, 2024 at 11:07AM By Elisa Guidici
THE ROOM NEXT DOOR
There’s no living storyteller with a more profound, intimate understanding of death than Pedro Almodóvar. I call him a "storyteller" because, in the 2020s, that’s become his most defining identity. His first English-language feature—set in an alternative, upper-class, hyper-cultural, Almodóvarian version of the United States—once again showcases his incredible narrative talents...
Like his recent works, The Room Next Door begins in a fragmented, disjointed way, almost like a creative writing prompt. A woman meets a friend who informs her that a mutual acquaintance has been diagnosed with an aggressive cancer and is in the hospital. The first woman, played by Julianne Moore, is a novelist terrified of death and its physical manifestations. Her courtesy visit to her old friend reconnects her with a war reporter, portrayed by Tilda Swinton, who is deeply familiar with death, constantly pondering her own afterlife and even speaking of herself in the third person.
Though the film is slow to get rolling, when Almodóvar reveals the meaning behind the title—an homage to Virginia Woolf’s "A Room of One's Own"-- it becomes clear how precise his vision is. We realize that what we mistook for background noise was the “click” of the first domino, setting off a chain reaction. By the time Almodóvar takes us by the hand and reveals the intricate cascade of events, the film has evolved into an unrelenting meditation on illness and mortality. With its elegiac tone, the film speaks to an older audience, those who have encountered illness firsthand. Yet despite the subject matter, Almodóvar’s *memento mori* feels surprisingly clean and reflective—more a philosophical exploration of death than a portrayal of someone facing it.
The film contains all the familiar elements of Almodóvar’s present (the “anatomy of pain” from Pain and Glory and past (nested stories, where one leads into the next, much like What Have I Done to Deserve This?), showcasing a director who delights in unsettling the audience with unexpected turns. For instance, Julianne Moore and Tilda Swinton’s characters are truly just friends (despite Moore playfully declaring “I love fruit” at one point), and their reunion doesn’t unfold into a romantic relationship.
Visually, the film is quiet, less energetic than Almodóvar’s earlier works, saving its impact for emotional climaxes. This time, he opts for tableaux, transforming Tilda Swinton into a figure that evokes both Hopper and Warhol. She looks stunning in an acid-yellow suit in the film’s key scene, which gradually shifts into a melancholic green, a color often associated with grief in Almodóvar’s films. One of the most moving scenes finds her in neutral tones, stripped of glamour, lying on a bed. Julianne Moore stands at the door, painted red, while Swinton turns toward her, looking at her, at the camera, at the audience, with an incredibly tender expression. It’s the look of someone who knows that the other person (both the character and the audience) briefly thought, upon seeing her eyes closed: “This is what she’ll look like when she dies.”
Death permeates The Room Next Door: you can “hold it in your hand… I didn’t think it would be so light,” after purchasing it on the dark web. It can sap your passion for what you’ve always loved, whether due to a cancer diagnosis or a stark realization of how the planet is dying alongside all its inhabitants. Living and aging are forms of death just as inevitable as dying from illness.
The Room Next Door is undoubtedly painful, but it finds hope where you’d expect only despair. It’s as if, in embracing mortality, Almodóvar is telling us that a more conscious, refined version of life is possible. This late stage of his filmmaking is deeply contemplative, focused on themes that have always been close to him (here, the regret of a sacrificed motherhood for artistic passion is central), removed from the raw desires of the flesh but nostalgic for “the time when I wanted to have sex every day.” It’s reflective yet full of surprises—like the character who appears in the final act, played by an actor whose presence could only work in the hands of someone as audacious and familiar with his craft as Almodóvar.
Editor's Note: If you understand Italian you can also watch Elisa discuss these Venice titles on her Instagram account.
Reader Comments (2)
This (and Blitz) is one of the films I can't wait to see. I always enjoy Almodovar, even his slighter works. But, when he's firing on all cylinders, I find myself deeply moved by his films.
I do wonder if this could be an even bigger breakthrough for him than Talk to Her. I'd love to see the Academy really embrace him and give him his due.
I love Almodovar and I am intrigued by this though I need to see Parallel Mothers and his 2 most recent shorts.