In his first English-language feature, The Room Next Door (2024), Pedro Almodóvar conjures a cinematic world so unique and bizarre, so tragic yet laced with peculiar, almost grotesque humour, that regardless of whether one loves or hates the film, one must admit: we have never encountered such a filmic landscape before.

Without revealing unnecessary spoilers, the story follows Ingrid (Julianne Moore), an author whose latest autofiction work, On Sudden Deaths, explores her fear of dying. She is confronted with the news that her old friend Martha (played extraordinarily, as always, by Tilda Swinton) has been diagnosed with terminal cancer. Ingrid reconnects with Martha, visiting her in the hospital daily. One day, Martha confesses that her latest test results are tragic and that she has chosen to end her own life with a pill obtained via the dark web. She has one request for Ingrid—she wants her to be in the room next door when she passes.

Divisive Reception

The audience’s reaction has been polarising. At the screening I attended, some viewers despised Almodóvar’s bizarre meditation on death, arguing that it lacked realism. But given his conscious production choices—such as using Spain as the film’s primary setting—I do not believe realism was ever the aim. On the other hand, The Room Next Door won the top prize at the Venice Film Festival and received a 16-minute standing ovation—an almost surreal detail in itself, as many pointed out, evoking The Hunger Games.

Aged, Evolved, and Still Almodóvar

Much of the criticism directed at Almodóvar’s latest work suggests that his signature flamboyant, theatrical style has matured—perhaps at the expense of its youthful exuberance.  But I struggle to justify such complaints. Pedro has been making films since the 1980s—this is over 40 years of an actual filmmaking career. It is only natural that his style would evolve, mature, or even temporarily revel in the sheer joy of experimenting with the film form. And this is precisely what has happened with The Room Next Door; it is both quintessentially Almodóvarian and yet, paradoxically, something else entirely. It is utterly delightful. A dreamlike, bizarre meditation on life, death, and the necessity of rethinking how we define existence in a Eurocentric world.

Death, Climate, and the Collapse of Certainties

The spectre of global warming looms throughout the film, explicitly referenced in dialogue and visual motifs, reinforcing the impending demise of the planet and, consequently, of humanity. The finality of ecological apocalypse—the death of the Earth, its creatures, and ourselves—is unthinkable without violently dismantling the so-called truths we have been fed: the superiority of logic, Cartesian reason, and transcendental thought, always associated with male qualities that dominate over the body, over matter. And in this equation, matter is always female.

What does it mean to be ‘human’ in the Eurocentric world? It is a conceptual figure that, if fully embodied, could only be a psychopath. The ‘human’ is a white, straight, cis man—one who does not feel but merely thinks. His morality is constructed on standards that serve his own benefit. As our society is based on this figure, so too is global advanced capitalism—hungry, extractive, devouring everything that diverges from its standards. This includes the extraction of Earth’s resources, of Indigenous and Black people, of the working class, of women, of sexual minorities—everything that is not ‘(hu)man’ is meant to be exploited. This is how the Anthropocene was created, and this is how we now live inside its ongoing apocalypse. Because it is so overwhelmingly unthinkable within (hu)manist logic—without perpetuating further disaster—we must learn how to think anew.

Power Over Life and Death

Power over life and death is what the (hu)man requires to sustain its reign. If we could freely arrange our own death, it would mean we exercised power over our life. And (hu)man cannot allow this to happen—it must dictate when we are permitted to die. The docile bodies that diverge from (hu)man standards are needed to serve those who are closest to those standards. *The Room Next Door* questions to what extent this power can ethically be exercised.

Another crucial ethical consideration arises: perhaps, if humanity has brought the planet to its demise—dragging with it flora, fauna, fungi, rocks, and the sheer beautiful diversity of earthly organisms—perhaps it is time to embrace death as an act of ethical activism.

Almodóvar’s Dreamlike Canvas

As always, Almodóvar investigates these weighty topics through his signature pastel colours and paradoxes—like pink snow, a striking metaphor for the surreal, contradictory aesthetics of the climate crisis. The chemistry between Martha and Ingrid is mesmerising, with papable innocence of their sensual friendship.

The film features recreations of Edward Hopper’s paintings—embodying his hyperrealist aesthetic, which, despite its attempt to capture an ‘essence’, always transgresses realism. Hopper’s work leaves us longing for a reality that forever eludes us. The Room Next Door takes this longing and applies it to our present age of apocalypse, in which (hu)man realism no longer suffices. If we are to survive, we must dismantle humanism—deconstruct and reconstruct it anew. We require a new realism, one that embraces multiplicity rather than eradicating it under patriarchal, misogynist, and racist structures.

A Deliciously Paradoxical Film

The Room Next Door revels in paradoxes: an American story filmed largely in Spain. The subject matter—assisted death—is hardly controversial in a society where terminating life in cases of immense suffering is widely regarded as ethically commendable. Yet, from these contradictions, Almodóvar crafts a dreamlike world, balancing between realism and fantasy.

The Unexpected Hilarity

For all its weighty themes, the film is also hilarious, from Ingrid’s breakdown at the gym to an absurdly awkward dinner party scene, where conversations about death take a bizarrely comedic turn. A standout comedic moment is Ingrid’s breakdown in the gym, culminating in an awkward confrontation with a (possibly gay) personal trainer. But the true cherry on top is the final act, where Tilda Swinton delivers an unexpected double role. Without spoiling the surprise, I will say only that it beautifully ties into the Hopperian hyperrealist lack of realism.

The film’s casting reinforces its aesthetic: Martha, played by Swinton, embodies otherworldly, ethereal, androgynous qualities. This is fitting, given that Martha’s career as a war photographer—a field dominated by men—positions her outside traditional femininity.

Erotics of Care

The male figures in the film are secondary. The primary focus is the beautiful relationship between Ingrid and Martha. Their connection is tinged with an unspoken desire, evident in their glances, their lingering embraces while watching films, their walks together. It is an erotics of care—for better or worse. And it is breathtaking.

Whether one finds The Room Next Door exhilarating or frustrating, it is undeniably a work of art that refuses to conform. Almodóvar, at this stage in his career, is not simply making films—he is constructing dreamscapes. And this one is well worth stepping into.