Julianne Moore and Tilda Swinton probe friendship and death in pensive The Room Next Door

“There are lots of ways to live inside a tragedy.”

Though this is uttered in the quiet drama The Room Next Door, it could also sum up renowned Spanish director Pedro Almodóvar’s body of work, which has plumbed grief, loss, beauty, and madness, often via the female experience, in his films. 

The Room Next Door, based on the novel by Sigrid Nunez (whose other meditation on grief and death, The Friend, is also making the festival circuit right now), marks Almodóvar’s first English language film despite it being his 23rd feature. Delightfully, nothing is lost in translation, even if the film is softer and gentler than many of his previous efforts.

When author Ingrid (Julianne Moore) learns that her friend Martha (Tilda Swinton), a former war correspondent, is in the hospital with cancer, she goes to visit, and the two old friends reconnect over memories, past lovers, and questions of life and death. But Ingrid, who is deeply afraid of death, is pushed to extremes when Martha asks her to be in “the room next door” when Martha takes a euthanasia pill, ending her life on her terms. Ingrid eventually agrees, but she is wracked with terror and anxiety as she watches Martha approach the end of her life with an admirable serenity.

Moore and Swinton share most of the film and are riveting as they wander through this pensive drama. Moore is a whirling dervish of anxiety and emotion, her nerves so frayed we can practically see sparks flying from her fingertips. In contrast, Swinton is breathtakingly still, a woman who long ago made peace with death and welcomes it as her last act of self-possession. 

The Room Next Door is not a political commentary on the right to die with dignity nor a debate over the morality of euthanasia. Instead, it is a heartfelt portrait of friendship: its cozy familiarity, deep warmth, and inevitable sense of unknowability.

Ingrid cannot fathom how Martha could make this choice or how she could be so casual about it. When the two travel upstate to stay in a cottage where Martha plans to end her life, Ingrid is terrified she will wake up and find Martha dead. But she channels that energy into walks, trips to the gym, and an attempt to offer Martha solace and connection as they read books and watch films. 

How one sees these moments will probably depend on one's level of comfort with death. Ingrid's morbid fears seeped into me as I palpably cataloged the final films or books Martha chooses to enjoy. My own existential crisis rose to the surface alongside Ingrid’s as she struggled to understand Martha's decision. But Ingrid realizes it's not about understanding the choice; it's about being there. Ingrid and Martha show that friendship is never dependent on wholly knowing the other person, a somewhat impossible task. Instead, it's about showing up, even in moments of deep confusion or disagreement.

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Swinton utterly sells the infuriating cool and calm of Martha, a woman at peace with her choices — even the things she leaves unresolved and unfinished (most notably, her estrangement from her daughter, Michelle).

John Turturro also features as Damian, a fellow writer preoccupied with the imminent end of the world thanks to climate change. He’s nihilistic in a way that Martha is not, contrasting his pessimistic view of a planet in its death throes with Martha’s blissful engagement with the natural world and the beauties she is absorbing for the last time. Turturro’s unique blend of charm and realism shines as he slips into this world like it’s a favorite sweater.

The film largely lives in close-ups and medium shots, letting us sit with these two friends who are wrestling with some of the universe’s most unknowable questions. Moore and Swinton are never anything but flawless as performers, and that remains true here as they grant an exquisite introspection to their characters. To watch these two masters at work, just existing with each other, is reason enough to see the film.

Almodóvar often opts for more showy camera techniques, but here, he foregoes that to let the emotional depth of the story do the work. There are still traces of his fascination with bright color, most notably in the costumes and production design — with poppy, cheery ensembles, and locales juxtaposed with the story’s morbid focus. It highlights the film's reflective nature, showcasing the vibrancy of these women's lives while still insisting that we try to view passing as something beyond mere tragedy.

Still, even with its preoccupation with death, The Room Next Door is not a dour film. In fact, it’s rather optimistic, celebrating the beauties of life and meaningful connection in the face of death with a thoughtful, pensive tone. Our end is something we all must face, but the film posits that doing so surrounded by beauty and love is something we should embrace. Grade: B+