It’s probably always tricky when a work of art quotes another one, more so when the quote is direct—that is, in the same medium, on the same theme, and very nearly piggy-backing on the original work. And this is what Pedro Almodovar’s THE ROOM NEXT DOOR, which opens in limited release today in the U.S., unfortunately does in relation to THE DEAD, John Huston’s final film. I say unfortunately because sadly the effect is much the same as that of SUGAR, HBO’s Colin Farrell detective series that's prone to gifting the audience with choice clips from the golden age of noir; after a certain point, one can’t help but notice how much the old stuff surpasses the new homage.
Of course, this somewhat reductive judgment could be unfair for several reasons: Huston was arguably the all-time master of adapting English language novels, and I’ve not even read the Sigrid Nunez's What Are You Going Through, upon which the new film is based, so I can’t speak to how artfully the adaptation has been handled. But I will contend that the deeply felt—and heartbreakingly expressed—emotions of both the 1987 film and the James Joyce novella are in short supply in THE ROOM NEXT DOOR, as is the effortless lyricism that they managed in conveying the universality of death (and, therefore, grief).
That’s not to say that there aren’t many things to admire about THE ROOM NEXT DOOR, including the beauty of its production design and its cinematography—reasons enough to catch it on the big screen, if you can, either now or when it goes wide in January. The leads, Julianne Moore and Tilda Swinton, are each captivating in their own way, and Swinton often does a miraculous job turning lines that seem unnoteworthy into sly reveals with the slightest of changes in expression. And that’s important, given that the script itself often doesn’t do much to turn “page dialogue” into “spoken dialogue”; to return to noir again, it’s the same challenge that Raymond Chandler said he ran into when adapting DOUBLE INDEMNITY for the screen.
What’s more, the simple fact that the film tackles not only the existential reality of death but society’s lack of support for individual autonomy regarding it… well, that itself is admirable. In fact, with some changes in tone and emphasis, THE ROOM NEXT DOOR could have been a compelling “drama of ideas,” and perhaps that’s how many already view it. But for me it occupies a kind of nondescript middle ground between thoughtful “meditation” and cathartic psycho-drama, offering the full virtues of neither. In case another point of comparison is needed besides a 1987 film: THE ROOM NEXT DOOR lacks the engaging specificity, confidence, and sheer freshness of Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s DRIVE MY CAR, which not only addresses similar themes, but also happens to be an adaptation of an acclaimed story.
At times Almodovar’s film seems like it aspires to being equally bold, but it instead comes across as a meticulous still life—with the same gorgeous visuals almost serving as a distraction as we marvel at all the “style” on display. In the end, then, THE ROOM NEXT DOOR both goes deep and remains shallow. Many of the characters feel like they’re personifications of particular worldviews and little more; I’m thinking of the characters played by John Turturro and Alessandro Nivola—both actors are certainly fine, and it’s not their fault that they’re asked to spout mini-speeches that embody perspectives framed as stark philosophical alternatives to those of the main characters. The end result is that the film resembles a lightly fictionalized essay connecting the timelessness of the death theme to the current mood of the end times possibly being upon us. The trouble is, it doesn’t impart a living heartbeat to its convictions before it draws its last breath.
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