Imperator Ç’s review published on Letterboxd:
"The world is so big. It's so big you wouldn't even believe it."
Three months later, today I revisited Room on the big screen. I never expected to find the same despoilment of spirit that I met the first time, but the truth is that, on a second viewing, even though deprived of the surprise factor, Room still manages to be a painful and heartbreaking experience, undescribebly powerful and harrowingly soothing.
Soothing because it is gratifying beyond your most realistic expectations. Had one told me that I'd finish watching a film about a child born and kept in captivity for 5 years with a tear rolling down my face, and yet, a sincere, thankful smile, and I would've never believed it. But that's the truth.
Room hurts, but then it heals. In that closure scene you project your highest hopes of happiness in Jack, hoping he'll make it out alright; in your heart, you already know he will.
Jacob Tremblay's breakthrough as Jack fills your heart and gives you enough joy to believe in miracles, but it's Brie Larson's magnanimous rendition as his prevailing and caring Ma that seals the whole deal. It is a one-woman show of the highest order, acting of the finest type, that comes effortlessly from within and makes you believe unconditionally.
Look, I'm done with mixing both happy and sad adjectives and adverbs while writing about Room. If I never find the ultimate paradox to successfully describe its gut-wrenching power, at least one thing I'll always know.
I'll forever share those characters' strong. That token of endurance, belief. The strong needed to enter Room, that painful prison, place of hurt and awakening, you'll gladly leave but you'll never let go.
And that is, truly, the greatest gift.