At the age of 75, director Pedro Almodovar is still breaking new ground. In The Room Next Door, we have his first full-length feature in English. Taking its lead from Sigrid Nunez’s novel, What Are You Going Through, the film sees two friends reunite after years apart.
Ingrid (played by Julianne Moore) is a writer living in New York. During a book signing, she bumps into a friend who mentions that their mutual acquaintance, war correspondent Martha (Tilda Swinton), is dying from cervical cancer. Ingrid goes to the hospital, and after a few visits, Martha asks Ingrid if she would help her die. The treatments are not working as they should; she wants to die with as much dignity as possible. Martha has planned her death down to the finest detail: she hires a beautiful, secluded house for them to stay in. Kevin McCloud would approve. Martha has a month before she is expected to return to the hospital for further treatments. Within this time frame, she will take a ‘suicide pill’ procured from the dark web. Ingrid will have zero culpability.
Almodovar’s screenplay sidesteps every expectation for this kind of film. Ruminating on what a terminal diagnosis means, physically and psychologically, The Room Next Door avoids the existential heaviness of Bergman’s Cries and Whispers. Instead, moments of humour come bursting through: Swinton milks a great line where she talks to Ingrid about the absurdities of being so closely monitored. Thanks to a barrage of tests, her doctors have told her that while she may have terminal cancer, her heart has never been better. The film has several of these moments. In a scene where Ingrid and Martha wander through a bookshop, Martha remarks that she’d like to read Erotic Vagrancy but she’d never finish it in time. Almodovar wisely taps into Swinton’s gift for comedy: there’s a reason why she’s so popular with Wes Anderson. It is in these scenes, where Almodovar explores the humour found in the darkest moments, that the film finds its groove. Almodovar also celebrates what’s good in life: from the mise-en-scene of Dolce and Gabbana primary brightness to a roll-call of film and literature greats. William Faulkner, John Huston and Buster Keaton all get honourable mentions. The film zings with colour and vibrancy: as a counterpoint to the proximity of death, Swinton and Moore are dressed protectively in beautiful jewel tones: teal, emerald, vermilion. The glamour, while an obvious note for two women living in a cosmopolitan centre like New York, serves to underline a sort of defiance for both characters. As death approaches, Martha applies a layer of bright, bold lipstick.
While Almodovar’s dialogue can sometimes feel a bit stilted – even Moore and Swinton struggle with it at times – the film is at its best when the two actors are just allowed to play off each other. Their performances are, as you would expect, exemplary, but Moore and Swinton seem to instinctively know between them what is too much, or just enough. No scene is overplayed. Moore and Swinton are given plenty of space by Almodovar; exceptional for a film where the central characters are women. The characterisation is both complex and contradictory: as Martha, Swinton is brittle and vulnerable, but there is a growing acceptance of death that comes from her years reporting on various conflicts around the world. She even mentions that she had to become like a man to succeed – and she enjoyed the freedom of it. While Moore plays the more conventional character (Ingrid is filled with doubts and worries, compared to Martha’s quiet certainty), the fact that Ingrid and Martha slept with the same man, Damian (John Turturro), with some overlap between the two relationships, is a slight point of friction but not the major plot point it would be in a less interesting film. The women are not defined by their proximity to men. Almodovar’s respect and admiration for Moore and Swinton is what really defines this film. They are dressed for the Gods, but Almodovar doesn’t objectify either woman. Their scenes together are a master class in ensemble acting. It is sad to reflect how rare roles of this depth and interest must be, even to actors of Moore and Swinton’s standard.
Almodovar has been frequently vocal in his support of euthanasia rights, and The Room Next Door does not shy away from exploring what that decision feels like and looks like. Martha moves, unsurprisingly, from a state of calm to sudden clutches of terror: the fear of what, exactly, comes next. In an interesting adjunct, Ingrid meets Damian for lunch. As an academic specialising in climate change, he sees Martha’s decision through another lens, and discusses, with animation, the metaphor of a terminally ill planet. The idea that we are all, essentially, living on borrowed time. It is an uneasy conclusion, but necessary. The question is posed but left unanswered: what waits for us in the room next door?
The Room Next Door is playing at Plymouth Arts Cinema from Friday 8th – Thursday 14th November.
Reviewed by Helen Tope
