When Two Strangers Shared a World — The Many Layers of Room in Rome
Room in Rome debuted in 2010, instantly becoming a hot topic, and not just because of its controversial themes. Although Julio Medem had a reputation for beautifully “poetic” cinematography, as in Lovers of the Arctic Circle and Sex and Lucia, the film seemed a little quiet chamber drama set over a single summer night. But underneath the calmness, it turned out to be a far more complex meditation on the issues of identity, trust, and the tenuous closeness of two human beings with a bond that will never meet again.
The film captured attention at the festivals for the most spellbinding trailer, a leisurely montage of two women laughing and weeping and a dimly lit Rome while Godoy’s haunting score played. The “audience” came expecting a soft-porn and received the most emotional and cathartic conversation.
The Story That Was Really a Mirror
To a degree, Room in Rome is about a Spaniard, Alba (Elena Anaya), and a Russian tourist, Natasha (Natasha Yarovenko), who meet one evening, and spend the night in a hotel together. Unlike other instances of attraction and departure, however, Medem avoids making the encounter purely erotic and instead opts for a psychological duet — revelatory and secretive in equal measure.
As the night deepens, the two women recount episodes of their lives, some of which are true, others lies, and all tinged with the deceptive warmth of curiosity. With every word and every look, a discovery is made. There is no seduction in the storytelling. Rather, there is the unending human desire to tell others who one is.
The hotel room metaphysically transforms into a cocoon, a place suspended out of time. The ancient city of Rome, wise and eternal, is a mere backdrop. Negotiating their stories, the women seek to redefine their limits and confront their fears. For love, for family, for faith, for freedom, every longing they cannot profess overtly finds reflection in the stories they tell, and in the darkness, the women share.
The People Behind the Characters
The performance of Elena Anaya has always been noted in Spain. Room in Rome, however, became a pivotal work in exploring vulnerability. Anaya approached Alba less as a liberating symbol, but as a woman trying to escape an emptiness of her own. In her own words, “I didn’t see it as a film about desire. It was about two strangers trying to fill the silence inside them.”
Anaya was in a personal period of transformation, having worked in a series of intense roles in European cinema. After the intensity of those roles, she sought out more authentic cinema rather than the commercially polished pieces. That ache fit like a glove to the words that Alba spoke about truth and connection.
In comparison, Natasha Yarovenko has had less experience in the field, having been born in Ukraine, raised in Spain, and just beginning to build her career when Medem selected her for the role of Natasha. The film’s emotional intensity required not just courage, but emotional trust between the two leads. Yarovenko later reflected in an interview, “It wasn’t about acting. It was about listening — really listening — to another person.”
As for the off-screen interactions, the friendship between the two actresses was simply of quiet companionship, based on mutual respect. Rehearsals and work lacked all the ordinary protective barriers for the actors; conversations about the characters, and the fears that drove them, filled the silence of the rehearsals. Medem was said to be so fascinated by the chemistry that he often made changes to the scripts, allowing the actors to improvise, and capturing spontaneous moments that highlighted some of the film’s emotional peaks.
The Director’s Dream — and the Chaos Behind It
For many years, Julio Medem has been captivated by the concept of strangers forging a connection in a limited and enclosed space. While he initially intended to create Room in Rome as an English-language adaptation of the Chilean film In Bed (2005), it ended up becoming a more profound personal reflection. He changed the location to Italy, made one of the characters Spanish, and chose Rome as the eternal city to embody the themes of history, memory, and rebirth.
Yet, the shoot had its difficulties. For several weeks, the team had to work in the confines of a single hotel suite. To simulate the transition of night to dawn, the lighting had to be changed many times. “By the third week, we all felt like we were living inside the movie,” said cinematographer Alex Catalán in an interview. “The room wasn’t just a set — it was a living organism.”
Mediterranean reflections and mirrors were intended to serve a dual purpose: visual poetry and extending the perceived dimensions of the cramped hotel room. Most importantly, mirrors were made to capture the duality of the characters — of all the women, the each of the figures were seeing a part of the other.
The Symbolism Hidden in the Walls
Much of the film’s emotional weight is carried through pictures instead of words. The artwork in the room and the tones of the film capture the emotional journey: the warm amber tones shift to cooler blues, suggesting a transition from illusion to honesty. The framed pieces of art depicting mythological characters or lovers in frozen time, mirrors the characters’ unspoken desires that remained in the room.
Even the hotel’s geography is pregnant with meaning. Bordered by the obsidian Roman ruins, Medem’s hotel embodies the emotional excavation intertwined among Alba and Natasha. Medem once described the city as “a third character — ancient, forgiving, and full of secrets.”
Many fans have interpreted the film as a dream, suggesting that one of the women is a projection of the other’s psyche. Online discussions sparked by the film’s release were full of wild speculation: Natasha, was she even real, or was she merely Alba’s ghost of a past lover? Such ambiguity is what made the film’s presence so haunting on film forums, and commentaries on YouTube, where fans still dissected every line of the dialogue.
The Emotional Pulse That Outlived the Film
When Room in Rome premiered, it divided critics. Some praised its lyricism and courage, and others dismissed it as indulgent. Over time, it found a devoted audience, people who saw in it a reflection of their own longing for connection. In Spain, it became a cult favorite among young filmmakers for its intimacy, and the technical mastery of sustaining tension within a single location.
The trailer’s tender tone—soft piano melodies, candlelit scenes, and two individuals tenderly conversing about affection—evoked sentiments that were unusual during an era dominated by action-packed blockbusters. Audiences anticipated fervor, yet were met with a rawness that, for many, became the film’s concealed brilliance.
Even after many years, the viewers return not for the film’s surface plot but for its subtle valour. It was uncommonly audacious to depict emotional vulnerability as an act of courage.