This review contains content about suicide
After testing the waters with two English-language shorts, The Human Voice and Strange Way of Life, Pedro Almodóvar has chosen to make his first full-length English-language film, The Room Next Door, with Tilda Swinton and Julianne Moore. Adapted from Sigrid Nunez’s novel What Are You Going Through, the film earned Almodóvar the Golden Lion, marking his first top prize at the Big Three film festivals.
The premise of the film unfolds with quiet simplicity. Bestselling author Ingrid (Moore) encounters an old friend, Stella, at a book signing and learns that her former colleague, Martha (Swinton)—a once-intrepid war correspondent—is nearing the end due to cervical cancer. Though once close, Ingrid and Martha drifted along different paths over the years. Now, Ingrid begins visiting Martha in her private hospital room, where memories spill forth as if time itself has softened. Martha, facing her final days, speaks of her youth, her ex-lover Fred, the father of her daughter Michelle, her uncertain motherhood, and occasional happy memories such as sharing a lover, Damian (John Turturro), with Ingrid.
But the story shifts when, meeting at New York’s Lincoln Centre for a film, Martha makes a request. She asks Ingrid to join her on one final journey. She plans to rent a remote house in the woods outside New York, where, far from hospital walls and machines, she will end her life on her own terms. All Martha asks is for Ingrid to be in the room next door as she takes the pills, sourced from the dark web, that will end her life.
The Room Next Door strikes me as a strangely assembled work, despite its Golden Lion win. Perhaps it’s because overall the film feels like a surreal prose poem, rejecting traditional dramatic arcs, while Almodóvar still spreads theatrical moments all over it. He opts for a rich and ever-present orchestral score that often intensifies scenes unnecessarily, such as a moment when Ingrid, fearing that the worst has already happened, discovers Martha lounging calmly outside, enjoying the sunbathing.
Other heightened moments seem almost at odds with the film’s otherwise dreamlike quality: a poignant gay love story between two Catholic men Martha encountered while reporting in Iraq; a stubborn fridge door at their rented cabin that won’t open; a scene at the gym where Ingrid is crying and the extremely hot personal trainer wants to comfort and hug her but can’t, bound by gym rules. Martha also often reminds Ingrid, and us audience, that her euthanasia pills are from the dark web, a detail that later complicates Ingrid’s legal standing. There are flashbacks to Fred, Martha’s ex, gripped by PTSD, running into a burning house as his wife cries out, desperate to stop him. Almodóvar layers these dramatic touches, yet they occasionally weigh down the film’s subtle tone, adding moments that feel, oddly, both out of place and yet unmistakably his own.
Undoubtedly, the film’s greatest allure lies in the duet between Moore and Swinton. The main poster, echoing the 1966 masterpiece Persona, teases this dynamic: two women, cut off from the world, locked in an intimate isolation. Interestingly, Moore’s character feels almost like a reincarnation of Gracie from May December, carrying a polished veneer of education, warmth, and care, yet initially lacking a true, raw authenticity.
Swinton, by contrast, embodies a character who is direct and unapologetically honest, even telling Ingrid that she wasn’t her first choice, that she’s here because three closer friends turned her down. Yet, as they share time and thoughts, discussing Faulkner and Hemingway, James Joyce’s The Dead, and Roger Lewis’s Erotic Vagrancy, Moore’s polished reserve begins to crack. Sincere, unguarded emotion seeps through, as she gradually touches and cuddles the soul of her friend and the death foretold.
Filmed in the aftermath of a global pandemic, it feels fitting that this story centres on death and the quiet autonomy in facing it. Almodóvar doesn’t overtly state that the characters’ privilege enables this choice, but it’s clear that, in many places, taking control of one’s life remains a cultural and legal taboo. Near the end, Martha’s daughter Michelle finally appears, portrayed by a younger Swinton. A spectral presence. A reappearing ghost. In that moment, we sense the eternal rhythm: life continues, even as others slip away.
Provided via LFF press assets to The Student. Photography: Getty