Cult films and audience participation are all well and good, but do you really want to keep dressing up like an idiot and murdering The Timewarp at another Rocky Horror Picture Show? Those of you who answered “no” may pin a gold star to your Heavy.com Awesome Duder wallchart and all the people who answered “yes” can go fly up Elvira’s cooter for all I care. Wearing Dracula shirts and jilling off to Meatloaf is the old style: the hip young gunslingers of the bleeding now go see Tommy Wiseau’s magnum opus The Room, then throw spoons at it.
Why should you care about The Room? The Room is nothing less than one man’s vision, funded off the back of boatloads of bootleg Korean leather jackets and fueled by the singular talents of Tommy Wiseau’s savant genius: actor, director, producer, writer, mentalist, this film is a literal extension of the man who made it.
The Room takes Wiseau’s painfully earnest heartbreak and turns it into one screamingly petulant streak of Get A Livejournal. Wiseau loves his girlfriend and loves dry-humping her to R ‘n B slow jamz while showering her with rose petals, but not even his floral affections and unmistakable resemblance to William Dafoe playing The Crow can keep this bitch sweet. Soon she’s clamping her evil coot to his prettyboy best friend and leeching the poor shmuck’s moral code out through his balls. This can’t end well, and pretty soon the poo is hitting the fan, the walls, your face and eyes and mouth.
What starts like Friends remade by aliens ends like Mullholland Drive remade by morons: Wiseau becomes locked into a cycle of destruction that not even rooftop games of football toss with his drug addicted and mentally handicapped young ward can halt: the ending will shock you, amaze you and probably make you cry with laughter while punching the ground and gasping for breath. This is true car crash cinema, and I didn’t even get into the embarrassing orgasm faces.
I give The Room two huge, deformed thumbs up.