Pedro Almodóvar. Tilda Swinton. Julianne Moore.
Three names, three reasons to see a film—zero additional context needed.
But if you insist...
Best known for his work in Spanish (2019's Pain and Glory is easily one of the best films of that decade), Almodóvar makes his English-language filmmaking debut with The Room Next Door, based on a novel by Sigrid Nunez and starring Swinton and Moore as a pair of friends who'd lost touch but reconnect when one has a profound but peculiar request of the other.
An author on her book tour, Moore is Ingrid, who is startled to see Martha (Swinton), a war correspondent, who she hasn't been in touch with for years, in line to get an autograph. Their once-close friendship has faded due to life and time and distance, but it's not an unpleasant surprise for Ingrid, despite what's about to be asked of her. Martha, she learns, is terminally ill and contemplating how she wants her life to wind down. And she's hoping Ingrid will be willing to be there for the final days.
It's a massive ask, one of pure vulnerability and self-awareness. Martha is on her own, estranged from her daughter, Michelle, and perpetually single. She and Ingrid were close friends once, and she's counting on those deep ties to be what draws them back together at this pivotal moment at the end of her life. Ultimately, and not without hesitation, Ingrid agrees and the two leave New York City for a cozy rental in the country where Martha plans to shed this mortal coil on her own terms.
She's not asking Ingrid to do anything, per se. "You're not my caretaker, you're my guest," she tells her friend at one point when Ingrid is fussing over details. She simply doesn't want to be alone in these final days, wants someone in the room next door, as it were (though Ingrid actually chooses one a floor removed from where Martha stays). As the two settle into their new routine, Martha spending time writing letters to those she'll leave behind and Ingrid keeping busy at the gym, they ease back into their friendship, recounting shared memories and loves (including a shared one in Damian, played by John Turturro).
Almodóvar's films are always relationship-centered, endlessly interested in the ways we relate to each other from every angle imaginable. The friendship at the heart of The Room Next Door is no exception, and watching Moore and Swinton engage, question, spar, quip and grieve together is a gift all its own. Their dialogue is direct and confident, words from women who've seen things over their lives and careers and no longer have an interest in saying anything other than what they mean. It's refreshing and keeps the film from devolving into a sob-fest as the women get closer to confronting the real reason they've come to this house.
The film is full of Almodóvar's signature vibrant colors and bold design choices, here most gloriously manifested in deep red lip color or bright yellow clothes. One pivotal moment that should be framed as somber and quiet is defiantly bright, a beacon of light at a moment when all feels dark. And one casting choice late in the film is one of the most thoughtful, almost cheeky decisions only a filmmaker as confident as Almodóvar could make, a moment of magical realism I won't soon forget.
In the end, The Room Next Door is a rumination on friendship, connection, life, love and, above all, death. These are large subjects for any filmmaker to tackle, but Almodóvar has been doing this his whole career. And now in English, he proves himself just as capable as ever in a film that looks to the end as a place to start the conversation.
The film is now playing in theaters.