The Room Next Door Stares Blankly At Death

I’ve recently started enhancing my movie-going experience by limiting how much I look into new releases before seeing them. The idea is to spoil as little as possible and pass judgment purely based on impartial details such as the director, cast, or teasers. Minimizing my pre-movie knowledge allows me to enter with zero preconceptions or expectations, which I generally find more satisfying. Sometimes, I won’t even watch the trailer.

Predictably, this approach tends to be hit or miss. It worked wonderfully for Kinds of Kindness and poorly for the recently released The Room Next Door (TRND).

Despite the minimalistic but stylized trailer, the pairing of Julianne Moore and Tilda Swinton piqued my interest right off the bat. I figured any movie featuring Moore and Swinton playing off each other would be worth seeing, if only for their talent. Unfortunately, that assessment was only partially correct. It is undeniable that these star actresses succeed in conveying deep and captivating chemistry. While their characters are given limited background and context, the audience still gains a genuine sense of mutual respect and layered history between them. Their shared experience is believable and enchanting.

Where TRND fails is in the handling of complex themes and moral grey areas. Moore and Swinton do their best to deliver a desecrated script, like seasoned editors attempting but falling short of injecting human empathy into an AI-generated pile. The dialogue is rigid and dry. At times, it feels like the characters are unintentionally monologuing to the audience instead of speaking to each other. Sans organic interactions, we’re left with one long, tired lecture, and every flashback feels like a literal interpretation of ‘show, don’t tell.’

Giving credit where credit is due, TRND approaches substantive life and death themes that warrant true discussion. The unique perspectives are compelling, and the overall storyline is present. However, it ultimately neglects to give these heavy topics the justice they deserve. By the end, it feels like we’ve barely scratched the surface of what these characters have experienced during their dance with death, both as the choreographer and attendee.

True to Moore’s pedigree, Ingrid is charismatically enigmatic. Yet, her talents are wasted as her portrayal is far more compelling than anything Ingrid, the character, has to offer. Swinton’s performance is similarly deceptive. Her depiction of a once vibrant, independent, and accomplished woman dipping her toes into death’s deep end before diving in is nuanced and tragically beautiful, but the script simply does not allow for an honest portrayal of her deterioration outside of limited monologuing about her failing memory and physical limitations.

Particularly when utilizing a small cast, supporting characters must be crafted with clear and meaningful intent. But outside of a meager point of comparison to Ingrid’s disposition toward death and a symbol of “simpler times,” John Turturro’s character only exists to push dismal warnings of global warming and a planet in crisis with a severe lack of finesse.

If only the writing could hold a candle to the haunting close-ups of Martha’s last visages of life, the vibrant scenery, bewitching snow, or flamboyant wardrobe choices. What should be complex ethical considerations of assisted suicide and euthanasia are trivialized to black and white—and ultimately romanticized.