If you have not already done so, please see “The Room.” Certain films elicit so much joy they cannot be recommended highly enough. “The Room” is such a film. Not because it is good. No. “The Room” is not a good film. It is bad. Some call it “the best bad movie ever made.” But “bad” does not do it justice. In fact, no adjective I know fully conveys the comprehensive artistic disaster that is “The Room.” Perhaps some Amazonian tribe has a word that means “something so terrible it achieves a certain kind of majesty,” but in English we do not.
What makes “The Room” so very wonderfully, hilariously horrendous? Everything — Every. Single. Thing. The script? Yes. The performances? Yes. The costumes, sets, lighting? Yes, yes, yes. It is the “Citizen Kane” of awful, with the writer/director/producer/star Tommy Wiseau as its bizarro Orson Welles.
Self-financed by Wiseau in 2003 for an estimated $6 million, “The Room” grossed $1,800 in its initial two-week Los Angeles run, with one early review stating, “Watching this film is like getting stabbed in the head.”
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