I look forward to the day when I get to see a movie in an actual theater. I really miss it, but I also have to take into consideration that between tickets, treats and babysitters, I'm looking at about 80 American dollars to see one moving picture show (that's probably going to suck anyway). Instead, Mark and I have been Netflix devotees since 2003. I have to mention the date we joined Nexflix because Mark will get on his "I loved Netflix before anyone else did" soapbox. I shouldn't give him too much grief though because he definitely has the Netflix thing wired. Not only does he know the processing time of our local hub, but exactly when to mail something back in order to get a "long wait" release, pronto. That man can manipulate a queue like nobodys business. But I like Netflix because it means I can watch crap like The Bounty Hunter without judgement or shame. OK without judgement. But once in a while there comes a film, so moving, so haunting that it deserves only to be seen in a theater. Scratch that, in a theatre. When I first heard about The Room, it was apparent that this thing was so bad it had garnered sort of a Rocky Horror-like cult status with midnight showings and everything. All I had to do was hear "one of the worst movies ever made" and I was in. I love bad movies. Not bad movies like The Bounty Hunter, but baaaaaaaaaaad movies like Showgirls, which PS I saw in the theater on opening weekend.
Frankly, it's a pretty bold statement to call a film "the worst ever made," because that's a direct challenge to classics like Plan 9 From Outer Space and Valley of the Dolls, so you'd better be ready to put your money where your mouth is. And they did. The Room is amazingly, wonderfully, exquisitely bad. The direction, I don't think there was any. The camera work, sloppy. The story, incomprehensible. The continuity, non-existent. And the acting, oh the acting. It made the Saved by the Bell cast look like master thespians. Let's put it this way, one of the main characters also doubled as the line producer.
Frankly, it's a pretty bold statement to call a film "the worst ever made," because that's a direct challenge to classics like Plan 9 From Outer Space and Valley of the Dolls, so you'd better be ready to put your money where your mouth is. And they did. The Room is amazingly, wonderfully, exquisitely bad. The direction, I don't think there was any. The camera work, sloppy. The story, incomprehensible. The continuity, non-existent. And the acting, oh the acting. It made the Saved by the Bell cast look like master thespians. Let's put it this way, one of the main characters also doubled as the line producer.
Tommy Wisseau is the wonky-eyed triple threat that wrote, directed and starred in this masterpiece. Don't take my word for it, but I think that the story revolves around Wisseau's character, "Johnny." I really wish that people would never, ever name another character Johnny. It reminds me of 1940s film noir, and this movie is no film noir. It's more like film no bueno.
Anyway, Johnny has this slut girlfriend, Lisa, and despite the fact that everyone constantly refers to her beauty, she's more like a poor man's Britney Spears. Which is like saying she's a rich man's Tonya Harding. So even though Lisa appears to love Johnny she doesn't and wants to be with his friend, Mark (also the line producer). However, Johnny is a successful something-or-other and is about to get a promotion despite his Warrant-inspired hairdo and ill fitting suit (because he only wears one throughout the entire movie).
You know, I can't even bring myself to try and decipher the rest of the plot, because to be honest, I'm still confused by the delicate nuances of the script. Let's just say that there are subplots about drugs, cancer and domestic abuse but none of them are fleshed out further than one scene. You just kind of have to go with it.
Seeing The Room at an actual movie theater was like going to see Mystery Science Theatre 3000 live, but with more alcohol. We were surrounded by die-hard fans and it took me about 60 seconds to adjust to the yelling. I had to fight against the instinct to shush everyone. But once I settled in I realized that I was among like-minded friends. Finally, there were people to validate my feelings about dialog like, "I did not hit her, that's bullshit! Oh, hi Mark." To relish in my confusion over exactly what the deal was with that creepy kid Denny (or Danny depending on your interpretation of the accent) and his voyeurism. I'm not going to even address the tickle fight situation.
All in all it was the best $40 we've spent in a long time on a movie that we knew going in was going to be crappy. If only that had been true with The Bounty Hunter. By the way, we got my Dad to babysit.