The Room (2003)

Mark: How was work today?

Johnny: Oh, pretty good. We got a new client and the bank will make a lot of money.

Mark: What client?

Johnny: I cannot tell you; it’s confidential.

Mark: Aw, come on. Why not?

Johnny: No, I can’t. Anyway, how is your sex life?

Nothing more needs to be said about Tommy Wiseau’s epic drama. Nothing about the film’s gratuitous sex scenes, or the myriad of repetitively cheesy pop songs used to complement the sight of Wiseau’s flabby meat packets. Nothing about the mind-bogglingly one-note acting, or Wiseau’s dopey hand gestures and odd, slurred cadences. I won’t say anything about the film’s head-scratchingly convoluted screenplay, or its inability to complete a full conversation without multiple unrelated interjections along the way. I won’t talk about the excessive number of San Francisco establishing shots used to transition between every scene in the movie, or the constant use of camera cuts to make sure the audience knows who’s talking during every moment of the film’s 99 minute runtime. And I won’t mention the obviously green-screened rooftop, or the absurd frequency at which football is played in every imaginable setting.

The fact that every review and commentary on The Room seems to point out the same terrible flaws and eccentricities of what is often described as “the worst movie ever made” is perhaps a testament to the greatness of this film.

There are no words to capture the feeling that comes from watching this movie. Watch it with friends. Watch it with alcohol. Watch it with an open mind and be prepared for a roller coaster of emotions.

“I feel like I’m sitting on an atomic bomb waiting for it to go off!”