At a quarter to midnight, I grabbed my ticket, flask and three boxes of plastic spoons, and headed to the Clay Theatre on Fillmore. I had heard stories about the famously horrible movie The Room and watched a couple of YouTube clips so I’d know what I was getting into; yet none of that prepared me for the wonderful clusterfuck experience that is the insanity of Clay Theatre’s audience-infused, drunken screening of the film at midnight.
Quite honestly, though, the plot doesn’t really matter — there are so many narrative holes that it’s painful to try to follow along anyway. What you need to know is this: don’t go sober, and don’t take anything seriously.
If you haven’t seen The Room yet, know this: it is la crème de la garbage. The acting is horrendous, the green screens offensive, and the script a confusing jumble of words (my favorite line: “Put your stupid comments in your pocket”). Yet there is an overly enthusiastic, goofy cult following to the film. Hundreds make the journey to the theater each month to yell “Cancer!” and “Fuck the dress!” at the screen at appropriate moments. Over time, fans of the film have developed a similar set of rituals as those who attend screenings of the cult classic The Rocky Horror Picture Show, which involves audience participation triggered by similar cues during midnight screenings around the world.
The Room follows the story of Johnny, as performed by the film’s writer/director/producer, cardboard actor Tommy Wiseau. Johnny’s fiancée becomes bored with him and seduces his best friend for obscure reasons. Quite honestly, though, the plot doesn’t really matter — there are so many narrative holes that it’s painful to try to follow along anyway. What you need to know is this: don’t go sober, and don’t take anything seriously.
At first, I was overwhelmed by the excessive audience participation expected of me. Thankfully, fans of The Room are a welcoming bunch, and I caught on quickly with the guidance of my friends, who had attended before. For virgins of The Room: practice your hate for Lisa, and yell at the screen as she fucks up her life, one awful decision after another.
“You’re My Rose” from “The Room”
What makes this film so magical isn’t the mysterious actor/writer/director/producer, who may have funded the film by illegally selling contraband leather jackets. It’s also not the soundtrack, which features the outstandingly repetitive “You’re My Rose” in every sex scene (including the one between Johnny and Lisa, which is the exact same footage from the first scene). No, what’s so magical is the cadre of loyal fans who make the trek every month to honor and preserve the horrendousness of this piece of “art.” And now I’m one too, and I plan to continue this tradition with a full heart and spirit.
If you go: The Room plays at the Clay Theatre on the second Saturday of every month.
Price: Regular admission: $15, students: $10
Bring: Plastic spoons, a football and a flask
Tickets can be bought online or at the door.
