Pedro Almodóvar has this way of making the air in a room feel heavy. It’s a gift, really. When La Chambre d'à Côté (The Room Next Door) premiered at the Venice Film Festival, the standing ovation lasted eighteen minutes. That isn't just a polite "good job" from the critics. It’s a collective sigh of relief because Almodóvar, the master of Spanish melodrama, finally made his English-language feature debut, and he didn't lose his soul in the translation. People were worried. Hollywood has a way of bleaching the color out of international auteurs, but this film is as vibrant as a fresh bruise.
Julianne Moore and Tilda Swinton. Just saying those names together feels like a cheat code for cinema. They play Ingrid and Martha, two women who were close in their youth and then, as life often dictates, drifted into different orbits. Ingrid writes autofiction—she’s obsessed with death, but from a distance. Martha is a war correspondent who is actually dying. It’s a heavy setup. Honestly, it could have been a total downer. Instead, it’s a masterclass in how we show up for people when things get messy.
The film is based on Sigrid Nunez’s novel What Are You Going Through. If you haven't read it, the book is a fragmented, deeply internal look at empathy. Almodóvar takes that internal dialogue and splatters it across the screen with his signature primary colors. Pink walls. Green sweaters. Red sofas. It’s almost aggressive how beautiful he makes a story about terminal illness.
The Reality of La Chambre d'à Côté
There is a specific kind of bravery in Almodóvar’s choice to tackle the "right to die" debate so head-on. Martha, played by Swinton with a brittle, translucent kind of grace, has decided she’s done with the hospital visits and the failed treatments. She asks Ingrid to stay in the room next door while she takes a pill she bought on the dark web. That’s the crux of La Chambre d'à Côté. It isn't about the act of dying itself, but the act of witnessing.
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Ingrid is terrified. Moore plays her with this constant, flickering anxiety. You can see her wanting to run away, yet she stays because the alternative—letting her friend die alone—is worse. This isn't some saccharine Hallmark movie. It’s awkward. They talk about old boyfriends. They watch Buster Keaton movies. They argue. It feels real because it acknowledges that even in the face of the "Great Beyond," we are still preoccupied with the small, petty details of our lives.
Many critics pointed out that the dialogue feels "written." Well, yeah. It’s Almodóvar. He isn't interested in mumblecore realism. He wants heightened reality. The characters speak with a precision that feels almost theatrical. Some found the English phrasing a bit stiff, but arguably, that adds to the sense of displacement. These women are navigating a territory—death—where the old language doesn't quite work anymore.
Why the Setting Matters More Than You Think
The film moves from the claustrophobic buzz of Manhattan to a stunning, modernist house in Woodstock. This isn't just a change of scenery. It’s a shift in the film's DNA. In the city, death is a nuisance, a shadow in the corner of a crowded gallery. In the woods, it’s part of the landscape. The house itself—all glass and clean lines—becomes a character. It’s supposed to be a sanctuary, but the way Almodóvar shoots it, it feels like a stage.
- The Red Bedroom: This is where the tension lives. Martha’s space is curated, intentional, and final.
- The Nature Factor: The snow falling outside is a recurring motif. It’s a nod to James Joyce’s The Dead. "Snow falling faintly through the universe." It’s beautiful and indifferent.
- The Soundscape: Alberto Iglesias, Almodóvar’s long-time collaborator, delivers a score that is lush but never manipulative. It doesn't tell you how to feel; it just accompanies the characters on their walk to the edge.
The relationship between Martha and her estranged daughter, Michelle (also played by Swinton), adds a layer of complication that some viewers found jarring. It’s a classic Almodóvar move—doubling, ghosts of the past, the cycle of mothers and daughters. It’s the one part of the film that feels truly "Spanish" in its melodrama, even though it’s set in upstate New York. It reminds us that we don't just leave ourselves behind; we leave a trail of wreckage.
Navigating the Controversy of Choice
Let’s be blunt: La Chambre d'à Côté is a political film. By centering on euthanasia, Almodóvar is making a statement about autonomy. In Spain, where he’s from, laws surrounding the right to die have been a fierce point of contention for decades. By setting this story in the U.S., he highlights the weird, bureaucratic hurdles people have to jump through just to have a peaceful exit.
Some audiences might find Martha's decision selfish. The film doesn't shy away from that perspective. Ingrid’s initial resistance represents the audience’s own discomfort. We want people to fight. We want the "miracle cure." But Martha is tired of fighting. She wants to be the one to turn out the lights.
The chemistry between Moore and Swinton is what saves the film from becoming a lecture. They have this shorthand that only old friends have. They laugh at things that aren't funny. They sit in long, heavy silences. It’s a reminder that friendship is often more durable than romantic love. It’s the person who stays in the room next door who really knows you.
What Most Reviews Get Wrong
A lot of the early buzz focused on whether Almodóvar could handle the English language. That’s such a surface-level take. The language isn't the point; the vibe is. If you go into this expecting a fast-paced thriller or a gritty drama, you’re going to be disappointed. It’s a slow-burn meditation. It’s a "talky" movie. But the talk is about the only things that actually matter: sex, art, and the end of the world.
There’s also a subplot about climate change. Martha, the war reporter, sees the death of the planet as a mirror to her own decline. It’s a bit on the nose, sure. But in 2026, with the world feeling more precarious than ever, it lands differently. We’re all in the room next door to some kind of catastrophe.
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Practical Insights for Your Next Watch
If you are planning to sit down with La Chambre d'à Côté, don't do it while you’re scrolling on your phone. You’ll miss the shifts in light. You’ll miss the way Julianne Moore’s face changes when she thinks Tilda Swinton isn't looking.
- Watch the original first: If you can, revisit All About My Mother or Pain and Glory. You’ll see the threads Almodóvar is pulling. He’s obsessed with the same things: the color red, the weight of the past, and the resilience of women.
- Read the source material: Sigrid Nunez’s What Are You Going Through is a lean, mean book. Seeing how Almodóvar translated its internal monologue into visual flourishes is a lesson in adaptation.
- Check the legal context: If the ending confuses or upsets you, look up the current "Death with Dignity" laws. It provides a necessary frame for why the characters act the way they do.
- Look at the art: The film is packed with references to Edward Hopper and Virginia Woolf. These aren't just Easter eggs; they are the intellectual framework of the movie.
The most important thing to remember is that this film isn't a tragedy. It’s a celebration of agency. It’s about the power of saying "I’m here" when someone is facing the dark. La Chambre d'à Côté reminds us that while we all have to go through the door eventually, having someone in the room next door makes the walk a lot less terrifying.
To truly appreciate the nuance, pay attention to the silence in the final act. It’s where the film does its heaviest lifting. Look for the way the camera lingers on objects—a book, a glass of water, a view of the trees. These are the anchors of a life. When you finish the movie, take a moment to consider your own "room next door" and who you’d want to be there. This film is a prompt to have the difficult conversations now, rather than waiting for the snow to start falling.
Check your local independent cinema listings or major streaming platforms, as distribution for Almodóvar films often starts in select cities before a wider digital release. If you're a student of film, pay close attention to the production design by Antxón Gómez; it's practically a textbook on how to use color theory to convey emotional states. For those interested in the ethical discussions raised, exploring the memoirs of physicians like Atul Gawande can provide a real-world companion to the film's fictional narrative.
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Next time you find yourself at a dinner party and someone brings up the "death of cinema," bring up this movie. It’s proof that as long as we have stories about how we treat each other in the dark, cinema is doing just fine.
Actionable Steps for Viewers:
- Contextualize the Director: Before watching, view Almodóvar's short film The Human Voice (also starring Tilda Swinton). It serves as a stylistic bridge to this feature.
- Analyze the Palette: Track the use of the color red throughout the film; it often signals a transition between Martha's past life and her current reality.
- Engage with the Theme: Use the film as a starting point for discussions on end-of-life care and personal autonomy, topics that are increasingly relevant in modern healthcare.
- Follow the Awards Circuit: Keep an eye on the technical categories for this film in the upcoming season, particularly for Cinematography and Production Design, to understand the craft behind the visuals.