THE ROOM NEXT DOOR

This becomes the key tension in the film: the struggle between the desire to live and the desire to die. As Ingrid tells Martha, she fully respects her decision to end her life on her terms, but that doesn't mean she is wholly comfortable with it. Martha is looking deep into the dark and finding solace in it, while Ingrid needs to remain as close to the light as possible. Of all the narrative devices at play in 'The Room Next Door', the most delicious comes with Martha's promise that Ingrid will know she has taken her illegally-acquired euthanasia pill when she wakes one morning to find Martha's door closed. This makes that tension between living and dying manifest, turns it into something palpable. The closed door becomes the full embodiment of Ingrid's fear of death, this striking red barrier between her and it. She struggles against the pull of it and the pull of her friend, who insists on joking about or discussing her decision to die regardless of how uncomfortable it makes Ingrid.

It's to Almodóvar's credit as a supreme filmmaker that he never allows this to fall into histrionics. Neither Moore and Swinton, absolutely ravishing in their performances, ever raise their voice, even at the film's most intense moments, ensuring that the melodrama, while present, is always carefully calibrated. The histrionics are in the aesthetics of the film itself. As one would expect from an Almodóvar film, the production design from Inbal Weinberg is a kaleidoscope of colours and textures, these women living an aesthetic fantasy that's never distracting. It's a magnificent contrast to Martha's deterioration and a beautiful physicalisation of the central tension. In a film about death, these women are surrounded by so much vibrancy. The same can be said for Bina Daigeler's gorgeous costumes that not only make these already stunning women look even more so but act as subtle indications of character - Ingrid is always well-tailored and poised, while Martha, though in vibrant colours, is always swallowed by what she wears.

Eduard Grau's cinematography initially frames them in conventional two-shots, the camera often still and observational. As the tension of the film changes, so too does the language, with Almodóvar shifting towards something akin to a thriller, albeit one without an actual villain. Grau's camera now follows Ingrid more closely, almost voyeuristically, accessing her anxiety, while Alberto Iglesias' tremendous score shifts into a gear akin to Bernard Hermann and his work with Alfred Hitchcock. This is such a clever shift in tone, placing us so firmly inside Ingrid's psychological experience. Every morning when she wakes up is a fraught moment, whether that door will be open or closed, and each time Almodóvar returns to this scenario, he and his collaborators carefully amp up the anticipation and the tension. It ensures that, as well as the subtle shifts in the central relationship, the film maintains momentum by using the inevitability of Martha's suicide as the dramatic climax.

There are moments where the film strays away from Ingrid and Martha, but it's always in service of enriching its thematic core. Early on, we have flashbacks to Martha's relationship with Michelle's father Fred (Alex Høgh Andersen, TV's 'Vikings') and how his experiences in Vietnam created a cloud of death around him. We also see Ingrid reconnecting with academic Damian (John Turturro, 'Gloria Bell'), an old flame of both hers and Martha's who now lectures on the coming climate catastrophe. These interludes open up the thematic scope of the film, revealing how death manifests when we are exposed to it on an unparalleled scale and the overwhelming terror of the certain death that awaits our planet and our species. Rather than these feeling like distractions, these moments are vital and necessary to Ingrid's journey with death, adding to the discussion in order to highlight its balance with life. It's even there with Ingrid's interaction with a frustratingly religious policeman (Alessandro Nivola, 'The Brutalist'), who steps into the film to argue that death is not something we can choose, that the choice of when we die is the privilege of a higher power. The film does acknowledge the legal risks that face Ingrid if Martha completes her plan and is careful to give these appropriate weight, but while the film does engage in the language of a psychological thriller, it never lets this be the central concern. The antagonist here, if present at all, is ephemeral, unknowable, unpredictable. We don't need to add legalities to make Ingrid's narrative more fraught; it's enough to see her grapple with and anticipate the death of her friend.

As to be expected, both Julianne Moore and Tilda Swinton are extraordinary in 'The Room Next Door', the perfect collaborators for Almodóvar in bringing his distinct style to a new language. While Swinton has the more obvious challenge, giving depth and complexity to a woman losing control of her body and facing the inevitability of her death with grace, Moore really pulls of something magical in the way she's able to hold the centre of the film while also trying to run from it. Hers is really the central arc of the film, Martha carefully laying the breadcrumbs for Ingrid to follow to ensure that her friend is ready for what is to come. Moore shows us Ingrid's paranoia, heartbreak, frustration and acceptance with tremendous integrity, all the more impressive when combined with Almodóvar's melodrama. The power of this form is the way its heightened state can reveal hidden truths we often shy away from, and that's certainly the case here with both of these towering, magnificent performances.

In the final act, 'The Room Next Door' does offer one last unexpected surprise, but again, it's clear very quickly why Almodóvar has chosen to end his gentle meditation on mortality on such a note. Towards the middle of the film, you realise another reason why Martha has wanted Ingrid here with her - it's her last chance to take in the fullness of life, to see it in someone she cares about deeply and who lives so fully. Death is only as powerful a force because it contrasts so beautifully with one that is even stronger - life. In some ways, accepting death is a celebration of life, and Martha's wish is for an end in a manner that acknowledges the beauty and significance of of the life she has lived. There's a sense of life being passed between Martha and Ingrid, a gift handed delicately to the other, and in the final minutes of 'The Room Next Door', we see that transfer happening one more time.

As the credits began to roll and the full enormity of this cinematic gesture became clear to me, I was overwhelmed with love and admiration for this extraordinary film. It was a joy to be held so delicately in its hands, to have it speak so openly and calmly to me about something that does unsettle me, that unsettles us all. It does feel at this stage of his career that Pedro Almodóvar is unearthing something with his films, anxieties about growing old, growing frail, seeing the passing of what was towards the inevitability of what must be. 'The Room Next Door' is yet another breathtaking piece in that ongoing exploration, a gesture of humanity from its creators and a gift of generosity to its audience. If there's any sign of how great a film this is, it's that when it ended, it came as a surprise. All I could think was how much I didn't want it to end. And maybe that's the perfect artistic beat to leave us as we consider what it is to follow those we love into the dark.