★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Jack (Jacob Tremblay) awakens on his fifth birthday in the ramshackle
dwelling that is all he has ever known, all he has ever needed. Fuzzy faces in TV
land, the bright glare of skylight and smiling eggshell snake are his entire
world. His mother Joy (Brie Larson) decides the time has arrived to explain the
world beyond Room, and how she hopes they can finally escape the box that has
held her captive for seven long years.
Just reading back through that plot synopsis is a reminder
that no amount of set up can possibly begin to describe what lies in store for
viewers of Room, Lenny Abrahamson’s
bid for the Best Picture Oscar. A description of a mother and son confined to a
cramped prison doesn’t bring to mind a life-affirming love story, nor an
exhaustive display of emotion from happiness to heartbreak, from terror to
tenderness…but Room is all this and
more.
The titular shed may constitute Jack’s entire experience of
the world, but where we see limitation, he sees only expanse: simple details
and tiny objects are plentiful stock for a legion of adventures. The cinematic
universes of Marvel and DC have nothing on the sheer potential for storytelling
that lies in every nook and cranny, and the searing reveal of the unlimited
world beyond is suitably awe-inspiring.
Though ostensibly about music, Abrahamson’s previous
feature, Frank, was never a whimsical
riot, and to the same extent, Room is
not a dark psychological thriller. Vision is gentle, meaningful (keep an eye
out for a nod to Frank’s lonely
carpet tuft), as is voice: both visuals and sound are shy but curiously so,
peeking from behind corners looking for the passing of danger, the celebration
of small victories. Too often do dramas attempt to show innocence through the
eyes of age, but now the roles of youth and maturity are masterfully flipped
head-over-heels.
The main viewport in this case is Jack himself, our constant
companion. A lot has been said since the dawn of film concerning the many highs
and lows, joys and struggles of child actors, but Tremblay makes it look
effortless. Oscar snub? That’s putting it mildly. Emma Donoghue (writer of the
original novel) has penned a script that Tremblay filters with the giggles and
stomps of natural childish energy, but allows an additional shiver of artifice spawned
from a life lived in unusual spaces.
Larson has always been an asset to any picture, even in those
ill-befitting of her talent (see last year’s middling The Gambler remake) and under the spotlight of a leading role she
fully demands your attention as guide, teacher and protector (all various ways
of simply saying ‘mother’) as the story unfolds before the shared eyes of Jack
and ourselves.
Supporting acts are few and far between, but should not be
underestimated: Joan Allen lands a stirring role as Joy’s distraught mother,
and William H. Macy packs a metric tonne of presence into a near-cameo as a
father unwilling or unable to accept his newfound responsibility.
Strangely, the filmic comparison that comes to mind time and
again upon further reflection is Alex Garland’s terrific sci-fi ménage à trois Ex Machina. Both focus upon a
young-minded prisoner forever curious to discover an exterior reality, melded
with a recognisable but askance relationship between creator and legacy.
Where
the two differ is a matter of subtext: Ex
Machina is an exploration of pure interpersonal play, whilst Room details human interaction with
environment. Or, more specifically, the milieu of cinema-going itself. Like
Jack, we are cut off from the outside world, concerned only with the
characters, objects and events in our immediate proximity. Eventually we emerge,
blinking in the glare of a world that – for all its boundless promises – will never
quite hold the same allure, the same giddy frisson of that magic black box.
