The other night, my friend Megan and I went to a special screening of The Room, featuring an appearance by the star (and line producer) of the film, Greg Sestero. It was my third time seeing the film on the big screen, and Megan’s second. A couple weeks ago, after finding out about the event, I had bought Greg Sestero’s book The Disaster Artist, which chronicles his friendship with Tommy Wiseau, the writer/director/star/producer of The Room, and the making of the film. I devoured the book in two days, gleefully relishing the behind the scenes stories of the nightmare that was the filming of The Room. More than that, I found Greg’s depiction of his friendship with Tommy to be touching, terrifying, and oddly beautiful.
And so it was with great excitement that Megan and I went to dinner and drank margaritas, because one should never watch The Room sober, and headed over to the coffeehouse/cinema where the event was taking place. We were surprised to find a line waiting for the doors to open, but we grabbed a spot and began to wait, and watch, and listen.
The first thing we noticed was that, while there were some ladies there, the line was mostly comprised of young, white, stereotypically geeky hipster boys (the kind who would show up on a Tumblr called “Hipster or Halloween Costume?”). There was a guy in a Utilikilt (Google it). At least one of the people in the group in front of us had never seen the movie before. “I don’t know shit about this movie,” he said. “I know it’s…somethin’.” And he wasn’t wrong.
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HEY YOU GUYS.
I WROTE A THING.