Edgar Cochran’s review published on Letterboxd:
This review reportedly contains lubricant.
Many auteurs have existed during the evolution of cinema, dealing with transcendent themes that ultimately characterize the human condition. This representation of humanity through an audiovisual artform causes an epiphanic reaction in the captive spectator, as his/her human traits are either mirrored, exaggerated or dramatized, and in combination with the viewer's unique personality, way of thinking and way of feeling, cinema finally reaches a potential state of the aforementioned transcendence, an ethereal state in the viewer of personal identification that can only be consummated in perpetuity.
Tommy Wiseau, an immaculate director, screenwriter, actor and producer, conceives what seemingly is a simple melodramatic love triangle, but becomes a full illustration of the possibilities of celluloid, breaking standard storytelling rules and conceiving characters whose traits border on the fucking surreal with the purpose of taking our human passions and defects to an extreme in order to make their identification easier in the audiences. Moreover, along with its godly technical qualities that make the whole experience to be as sensical as staring into the black hole of a rainbow-colored whale while eating beer-flavored Cheetos and listening to Industrial Metal until realizing that you're pregnant, Wiseau achieves the magnificent state of cinematic Nirvana that so many filmmakers have strived for since the medium was born.
The seemingly unrelated subplots circling around Wiseau's imposing presence on screen represent the ultimate unpredictability and constantly shifting dynamics of life itself, with their unforseeable outcomes executing both its positive and negative effects on our existence that, put together, become components of our psychological and emotional uniqueness. It is in this point in time, filmwise, that the ingredient of Shakesperian tragedy plays its role, as our conceptions about trust and friendship are challenged when we witness a bunch of bizarre and flat characters, including the now cinematically iconic and legendary Lisa, betray Wiseau's ass.
Of course... Wiseau's ass:
Wiseau is aware of the distance existent between his absolute film genius and degree of humanism, and our obviously inferior position of mortal moviewatchers. He knows that the depth of his topics carry a relevance worth of dissemination, and achieves this goal with an otherwordly concoction of extraordinary performances and a hypnotic pacing, all dancing to the rhythm of his direction. The overwhelming effect is so great, that the resulting feeling of inferiority is impending. But the true auteur's heart resides in his/her ability to construct film testaments that reach an everlasting place in the viewer for perpetual reflection, while the auteur simultaneously places him/herself to the viewer's level in order to avoid a significant detachment. Wiseau does this, and above all wonders offered by The Room, we are given a spectacular opportunity, a tool, an unsurpassable image to feel at a comparable level in these realms between the filmmaker and the audience: we witness his ass. Wiseau granted us his ass. And it is in this moment when you lose consciousness for an indefinite number of months and wake up in a hospital feeling guilty for witnessing an intolerable degree of guilt. But not of potential homosexuality. No. It is because no auteur has starred in a film before and granted his immortal ass on screen.
Wiseau's monochromatic tones of voice actually represents the simplicity of the concepts of good vs. evil. He is a selfless and friendly man in a rather peaceful urban setting. Naturally, his peaceful, calm performance is supposed to be interpreted as the fragility of good in the middle of evil intentions. The bad performances have been, of course, misinterpreted. Wiseau is suggesting that, in the definitions of good and evil, there are only absolutes, which are reflected in the absolutely talentless, flat and faked performances... faked, because they are "faking" their dictated roles in a society full of mannerisms, while hiding their malevolent deeds against the protagonistic incarnation of "good".
After witnessing this giant middle finger not only against a bad-intentioned society, but also against the standards set by worldwide critics and internationally "renowned" film festivals throughout the generations, The Room's cult status deserves to be auteur status. Few, if not anyone, would be capable of constructing such a thought-provoking, philosophical amalgamation of relevant ideas, flawless filmmaking and softcore porn today, a mix that, right now, is finding its everlasting echo in an immortal shout worth of Hamlet's character:
"You're tearing me apart, Lisa!"
*"Lisa, Lisa, lisa lisa lis...¨." echo is heard in the distance*
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P.S. Real rating to be revealed in 15 hours from now.