Director: Pedro Almodóvar
Stars: Tilda Swinton, John Turturro, Julianne Moore
Having teased us with his queer western short Strange Way of Life, Spain’s most delightfully provocative export Pedro Almodóvar returns here with the first English language feature in a career boasting more than 20 remarkable films. It’s a late-game turn for the prolific director, one which finds him contemplating mortality (not for the first time). But even as he draws delectable talents like Tilda Swinton and Julianne Moore into his orbit, something ineffable seems to have gotten a little lost in translation. This is recognisably Almodóvar (the colours, the exquisite interior designs), but his fully-fledged arrival stateside is decidedly uneven; a bumpy landing after career-high Parallel Mothers.
If the torrid spectre of Nicholas Ray’s high-wire western Johnny Guitar fell over Strange Way of Life, Ray’s domestic melodramas of the ’50s haunt the peripheries of The Room Next Door, freely adapted from a source novel by Sigrid Nunez. Touching down in New York, Almodóvar takes it upon himself to interrogate America’s approach to assisted dying, as successful novelist Ingrid (Moore) happens upon her dear old friend, war correspondent Martha (Swinton), suffering the advanced stages of cervical cancer. Having reconnected, Martha makes a bold ask of Ingrid – come with her to an upstate retreat and be there by her side while she ends her life on her own terms. Stricken by the notion but loyal to a fault, Ingrid agrees.
After an opening act so listless and languid that this viewer fought off sleep in the cinema, the pair arrive at the most exquisitely Almodóvarian rural Airbnb, an exquisite structure nestled in the verdant hills, furnished in giant slabs of red and green, with a cineaste’s DVD collection on hand to boot. Martha is determined in her decision, but keen also to re-experience the small pleasures of life one last time, while Ingrid wrestles with her responsibilities and the sadness of it all.
Almodóvar takes to the topic with great empathy and sensitivity, while also finding places to cut in with barbed anger – largely these state-of-the-nation (or state-of-the-planet) addresses land in the mouth of visiting friend, lecturer and pathological doomspeaker Damian (John Turturro). But the script is often clumsy, with lines weighted heavily or fancifully. It errs toward the mawkish. Swinton – already contending with a strong accent – handles this all with her usual grace and poise. Moore seems less sure-footed, however, occasionally giving line reads that would feel just as fitting in a Tommy Wiseau drama. It’s hard to gauge sometimes if this is intentional (a tip to the soft hysteria of Ray, Sirk, Minnelli etc.) or not.
Similarly, the whole is peppered with scenes that feel oddly off-kilter from the grave core of the film. Ingrid’s interaction at a gym with a personal trainer is the most self-announcing example of this, weirdly laced with “OK boomer” energy. Elsewhere, a forgivable detour back to the city early doors feels a little foolish, teeing up a potential complication for later that the story then either forgets or rejects.
The Room Next Door ultimately lacks the consistent sparkle of Almodóvar at his fieriest. It is restful, contemplative, but also a little loose. A cosy evening with the two women watching a triple-bill of Buster Keaton, Max Ophüls and John Huston leaves the viewer – frankly – a little jealous. But there are tender moments to savour and many frames to cherish. It is, of course, a thoroughly handsome film. While it may be the director’s least compelling since airborne misfire I’m So Excited!, even a mid-tier Almodóvar announces itself as more elegant and adept than some filmmakers’ entire careers.
The Lost Highway Hotel 