The Room is an awful film. Plot lines are picked up and forgotten in seconds, stock footage is repeated continuously, actors and names change without explanation, doors are never closed and every photo frame contains a picture of a spoon. Even the second (absurd) sex scene is just a repeat with different music. But that is exactly its appeal — a film so bad it’s good. Scratch that, it’s so execrable that, to weirdos like me, it’s genius. I’m not alone: The Room has gathered a vast cult following.
The Prince Charles cinema in Leicester Square has cottoned on and has frequent showings. They sell out every time. Earlier this month producer, director and star Tommy Wiseau came to entertain his nerdish legions. In a pre-show Q&A, he resolutely failed to confirm whether or not he took his film seriously as an artistic statement. I have a worrying feeling he doesn’t get the joke.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in