In my room

1 08 2009

So bad. So, so bad.

The Room.

Have you seen it? Does it not make you want to gouge out your eyes, puncture your eardrums, and spend the rest of your life repenting of whatever sins led you to this movie?

Or, you know, buy a box of spoons and maybe some confetti and gather with friends in the balcony of an old theatre and watch it again? (Only this time, remember to bring beer—the bigger, the cheaper, the better.)

The Wikipedia summation of the film doesn’t really do it justice, insofar as it attempts to make sense of the six-million-dollar travesty. So here’s what you should know (WARNING: I give away the ending!):

Johnny, with his greasy long hair and muscular-yet-horrifying body, lives with Lisa, a nondescript blond who is nonetheless repeatedly referred to as beautiful. Lisa is variously described as a princess, a sociopath, and a tramp, all of which make her sound more interesting than she is. Lisa has boring sex with Johnny, then seduces Johnny’s best friend Mark (again, we know this because apparently Mark can’t say ‘Johnny’ without also saying ‘best friend’) with more boring sex. Lisa’s mom Claudette visits to say things such as ‘talk to me’, ‘I have breast cancer’, and ‘all men are assholes,’ then leave. At one point, Lisa’s friend Michelle and her boyfriend Mike come over to have boring sex with chocolate on the couch. At another point, Johnny invites his psychologist friend Peter over to the house to offer his professional insights, then complains that Peter psychologizes everything. (At one point Peter gets ‘cheeped’ by the boys, as in You Are A Chicken.) Oh, and then there’s Denny, the half-wit half-adopted drug-using neighbor boy-man who ‘likes to watch’ and gets in trouble with a drug dealer. Oh, and don’t forget the football, which is often carried, seldom tossed, but trotted out in alleys, on rooftops, in a park, and on the street. At the end, Lisa throws Johnny a birthday party, gets caught by Peter/Steve (don’t ask) trying to initiate boring sex with Mark, and instead initiates a boring fight between Mark and Johnny in which the phrase ‘motherfucker’ gets tossed about—the highlight of the film. Then Johnny shoots himself. The end.

Note that this makes the movie sound better than it actually is. Tommy Wiseau, the actor/director/producer/demon-from-hell, reportedly spent $6 million on this thing. I shudder to think what would have happened had he had $16 or $60 mil.

So why spend $12.50 on this? Because it’s a thing: one friend mentions to another that the movie runs once a month at midnight at a theater in the East Village, with the audience providing the entertainment the movie itself lacks.

Because I’d been feeling like a bum and a punk (tho’ not an old slut on junk) and in a bit of a funk, and needed a night out.

Because I keep telling myself to push myself more into my life and to take advantage of what New York has to offer (even when what it offers is so, so bad), and here was a chance to do that.

Because I haven’t been saying ‘what the hell’ nearly enough. (Although, after subjecting myself to this flick, I think I have, in fact, discovered something about hell.)

Besides, who wants to be a chicken?

*cheep*  *cheep*