Engineering this sort of spectacle would be embarrassing for an artist of any age, though it is doubly so because Wiseau is (conservative estimate) pushing 50 here, and it’s not without reason that “Die middle-aged, leave a Bowflex-toned-but-sort-of-weird-looking corpse” isn’t a saying in common usage—if you’re to lose your youthful glow in outliving Chatterton, the silver lining is that you’re supposed to get wiser.
Accidental surrealism can be even more potent than the conscious kind, and THE ROOM is some kind of zenith of its type, the equal to anything Ed Wood committed to celluloid.
It has a cast of professional actors who display a baseline of craft, energy, and involvement, and who surround the real-life Wiseau, who comes off in the film as a raging energumen of inchoate need. . . . “The Room,” with its blend of surface slickness and artistic clumsiness, is, for better or worse (actually, for worse), a vision of the world. It’s the embodiment of a world view that only an obliviously incoherent person would willingly display, even flaunt.