By any objective measure, “The Room” is one of the worst films ever made. That doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be watched by anyone with an interest in filmmaking. Edgar Wright, director of “Hot Fuzz,” has a theory that films are either “good” or “dull.” Any movie subject to monthly midnight-screening pilgrimages is probably not going to be dull. These Hollywood screenings of "The Room" are comparable those of “The Rocky Horror Picture Show,” with fans throwing spoons at the screen—when the framed spoon is visible, of course—and acting out the ripest dialogue. The screenings are also a constant battle between film and viewer; critics are applauded for the best takedowns.
There’s a lot to trash; “The Room” stumbles in every frame. Most scenes begin and end with people walking through doors and saying "Hi." Mysterious characters and whole plotlines appear and disappear with no explanation. The lengthy sex scenes are incompetently staged and set to toxic R&B crooning. Johnny (Wiseau) and Mark (Greg Sestero) would never, ever be friends in real life. The rooftop scenes have an ineptly green-screened San Franciscan skyline—incomprehensible because, why couldn’t they film on an actual rooftop? I could go on…
It’s hard to make a movie.
“The Room” is a case of artistic hubris so great that it enables a sort of begrudging respect. Tommy Wiseau, writer, actor, producer, star, has good-naturedly come to embrace the razzes. After all, the film may be finally making money for him. Not bad for a terrible film in a city rife with terrible, unseen films.
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