Chris At The Pictures

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.

It should be noted that I’m not fond of the ‘indie’ scene. I have no time for slow, drab ukulele music and the sort of navel-gazing, self-deprecating attitude and ‘quirky’ moniker that hangs like a black cloud over most of what is considered ‘indie’, the Zooey Deschanel character in 500 Days of Summer just about pushing my limits. As far as Frank is concerned, I was utterly charmed by it. The songs are not only unique and inspired, but they also help to create and work in tandem with the comedy elements with each of the band members given their own traits that prevent them from becoming bland and uninvolving side characters. They’re not just a lot of dreary soliloquizing but are intriguingly eccentric and boasting such an extraordinary range of instruments that it’s almost impossible to pick up on all of them in one viewing.

The most important thing about the film is that it is very, very funny. Ranging from physical comedy to vocal gags and entire set-pieces devoted to one joke, there’s much to enjoy here. Without wishing to spoil the fun for those yet to see it, a certain scene involving a Jacuzzi is tear-inducingly funny and just the Frank head by itself is so weird and placid that it’s comedy gold all by itself, not to mention the songs created out of the smallest little things, a standout of which would have to be Frank’s ode to a singular tuft of carpet.

Where performances are concerned, it’s interesting (but not surprising) that the Frank character has taken centre stage in the advertising for the film when really the true star is Domhnall Gleeson, who provides possibly the sanest voice in a film populated by over-blown characters and seems to be echoing a young Hugh Grant in his dumbfounded and stuttering moments, minus the upper-class smarm. That being said, Michael Fassbender – despite being shrouded contanstly in the enormous head – still manages to deliver a memorable performance as a man who seems to revel in the oxymoron of being forever hidden yet ecstatic at the prospect of fame. Maggie Gyllenhaal lends an enjoyable degree of depravity as control-freak Clara and Scoot McNairy (who is certainly going up in the world) provides a lot of laughs as the bands manager.

Though you feel that towards the end, a little of the magic starts to fade and the film wavers uncertainly, it manages to pull everything back for a low-key yet charming finale. Frank is not your average laugh-out-loud comedy, and though some may be put off by its off-beat, quirky attitude, it’s saving grace lies in the characters, their music, and the unashamedly wonderful eccentricity with which it carries itself. 

4.5 Stars