Maybe you have read Sigrid Nunez’s book “What Are You Going Through,” on which “The Room Next Door” is based.
I have not read this story yet. Nor have I read 2018’s National Book Award winner “The Friend” or “The Vulnerables,” two earlier novels of hers. When taken together, apparently all three stories compose a whole.
Last weekend, I prioritized seeing “The Room Next Door” based on movie times and the fact that Pedro Almodóvar’s first English language film would rank high for me in any case. (Readers of “Woman on the Verge” know just how much I love Pedro: My alter ego is named in part after his 1988 comedy film, which won several best foreign language film awards.)
“The Room Next Door” made me think about what movies I would watch if I were terminally ill. It also made me wonder where exactly filming took place. And it definitely made me think I want Julianne Moore not next door but in the actual room when I take my last breath.
This is true because “The Room Next Door” bears witness to unconventional choices. Played by Tilda Swinton, the main character, Martha, has metastatic cervical cancer. She decides to put her affairs in order, then goes about meticulously planning her end.
Martha’s end includes her friend Ingrid, played by Julianne Moore. The pair used to work at a magazine together and reconnect at the beginning of the film almost by chance. Ingrid is doing a book-signing when another acquaintance mentions Martha’s situation.
The contemporary house where the film takes place is actually in Spain, which stands in for upstate New York. It is a beautiful home, not a hospice house.
Planning her own end requires energy and focus. Martha has an estranged daughter, to whom she writes a letter. She also has former lovers, whom she discusses with Ingrid. For her part, Ingrid has some questions and concerns about the hour of death, as well as Martha’s soon-to-be-dead body.
Martha has it all planned out. She secures medication on the dark web for her specific needs and coaches Ingrid how to respond when death finally comes.
Generally, I like conversational cinema, especially between two people rather than a small group. But “The Room Next Door” never fully captured me the way I anticipated it would.
I have no idea why this is true. I wanted to love this movie, but this is not how I felt when the final credits rolled. I think this may have something to do with my Herculean efforts to sublimate the dread I feel as January 20 arrives. Elsewhere this week, I did refer to you-know-who as a psychic vampire, the kind who drains others of emotional energy.
My hope between now and next Wednesday is that you go see a movie, any movie, including “The Room Next Door.” While Almodóvar does not advocate for medical aid in dying, he does endorse social support when the end is near.
I agree. I also encourage you to seek social support by going to the movies with a friend the next time you head out. It is going to be a long week and an even longer four years.
