The Room Next Door

There is a specific shade of red—saturated, defiant, and deeply Almodóvarian—that feels entirely out of place in a hospital room. Yet, in The Room Next Door, that red is everywhere. It’s on the walls, in the upholstery, and draped over the shoulders of two women navigating the ultimate "extreme but strangely sweet situation." Seeing Pedro Almodóvar finally tackle a full-length English-language feature feels like watching a favorite neighbor finally learn your language; the accent is still there, some of the grammar is delightfully wonky, but the heart of the conversation is unmistakable.

I caught this during a rainy Tuesday matinee where the theater’s heater was clearly on strike. I spent the first twenty minutes shivering under my coat, which strangely mirrored the icy, clinical reality Tilda Swinton’s character was facing, until the sheer warmth of the cinematography started to thaw me out.

A Masterclass in High-Stakes Friendship

The film centers on Ingrid (Julianne Moore), a novelist who has built a career out of "autofiction" (writing about herself), and Martha (Tilda Swinton), a former war reporter who is now fighting a battle within her own cells. They were close once, back when they worked at the same magazine, but life did what it does—it drifted them apart. When Ingrid learns Martha is terminal, she steps back into her orbit, eventually agreeing to be in "the room next door" while Martha takes a self-administered euthanasia pill.

If that sounds like a total downer, you haven't seen an Almodóvar film lately. Despite the subject matter, the movie is visually ecstatic. Julianne Moore plays the role of the "professional observer" with a grounded, soulful anxiety. She’s our surrogate, the one asking the awkward questions we’d all be terrified to voice. Meanwhile, Tilda Swinton is, as usual, a celestial being. She actually plays two roles here—Martha and her estranged daughter, Michelle—a choice that feels like a meta-commentary on the way we inherit our parents' faces and flaws.

Their chemistry is the engine. There is a scene where they are just sitting on a deck, the New England woods looking like a painted backdrop from a 1950s Douglas Sirk melodrama, and they’re just... talking. It’s a drama that respects the audience’s intelligence enough to let a conversation be the most exciting thing on screen.

English with a Spanish Soul

Transitions into English-language filmmaking are often where great international directors lose their "flavor," but Almodóvar refuses to compromise. The dialogue, which he wrote and then had translated, has a formal, slightly stilted quality. It doesn't sound like the way people talk in Brooklyn in 2024; it sounds like people speaking in a high-fashion fever dream where everyone has a PhD in empathy.

I found this lack of "realism" incredibly refreshing. In an era where every contemporary drama tries to be "gritty" or "grounded," The Room Next Door leans into the theatrical. The production design by El Deseo (the studio Almodóvar runs with his brother Agustín Almodóvar) is so meticulous it’s almost distracting. Every book on the shelf, every piece of mid-century furniture, feels hand-picked to represent a life well-lived.

The supporting cast adds some fascinating contemporary spice. John Turturro (who I’ll always love from The Big Lebowski) shows up as Damian, a man obsessed with climate collapse. His character provides a macro-level "death of the world" counterpoint to Martha’s micro-level "death of the self." It’s a very 2024 inclusion—weaving the existential dread of the planet into a story about personal dignity.

Why This "Hidden" Winner Matters Now

While it won the Golden Lion at Venice, The Room Next Door feels like it could easily get lost in the shuffle of streaming algorithms and franchise behemoths. It’s a quiet film that demands you put your phone down and actually look at the screen. It deals with the "Right to Die" movement not as a political checklist, but as a deeply personal choice.

The cinematography by Eduard Grau (who lensed the gorgeous A Single Man) is spectacular. He uses lighting to turn a New York apartment into a sanctuary and a rented house in the woods into a stage for a final act. Combined with a hauntingly melodic score by Alberto Iglesias—a long-time collaborator who also worked on The Skin I Live In—the film creates an atmosphere that is both melancholic and incredibly life-affirming.

It’s a movie that acknowledges that death is coming for all of us, but suggests that having a friend in the other room makes the prospect a whole lot less terrifying. It is essentially a luxury spa retreat for your soul, provided you don't mind a bit of light weeping.

This is a late-career gem from a director who has nothing left to prove but still has so much to say. It manages to take one of the scariest topics imaginable and wrap it in a warm, vibrant blanket of friendship and high-end interior design. Don't wait for it to vanish into the "Recently Added" abyss of a streaming service—find a theater, buy some overpriced popcorn, and let Almodóvar show you how to say goodbye.