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Backrooms

It's good to be alone and bored in a weird place.

About five minutes into Backrooms, I got the unsettling feeling that director Kane Parsons was romanticizing a time he had never experienced but that I have intimate knowledge of. 2026 is a time where nobody has to be bored if they don’t want to be; it’s apparently somewhat of a common question from young people what we did with our time before smartphones, and it’s just as common to respond with the shocked and horrified realization that we don’t know. Backrooms is not so-called ‘slow cinema’, but it definitely draws from some of the same sensibility; long before we end up in the eponymous backrooms, we’re subjected to long pauses in the dialogue and long glances over strange, liminal spaces.

There’s been a lot of talk about our current relationship with boredom; it’s become clear that boredom and nothingness is a necessary part of the human experience. Long patches of the day where you do nothing are times when the brain and body rests, reflects, and processes information you’ve picked up. I believe part of Parson’s goal with Backrooms is providing both a place in the cinema where you can do that and to make you notice and even look for that feeling outside of the theater.

By far the best part of the film is when Clark (Chiwetel Ejiofor) is first wandering around the Backrooms. It feels trite to point out how well it captures the experience of wandering around an area you know you’re not supposed to be in; everything is both familiar and alien. One of its clever moves is that it’s actually recycling a very old video game concept in a very different medium, which is how it fits into the creepypasta internet horror story tradition; it’s specifically riffing on the concept of noclipping, in which graphics in a game (due to errors in programming) end up moving through one another, with the most extreme examples involving the player character themselves falling out of the world.

This creates an uncanny and very simple effect: things are just offbeat enough for you to try and make sense of them. You see the objects embedded within walls and you try to work out the story being told here; it’s not so alien that you make no sense of it, so you end up trying to explain it in your own head. Not only do you wonder how the objects got here in the first place (my favourite example is the reversed stop sign), but you wonder where they originally were. Who’s shoes were embedded into the ground?

Parson’s answer works very well for the emotional arc he’s telling in this film: it’s a subjective space mirroring the real world. I rolled my eyes at the whole ‘therapists are unprepared for how crazy real people are’ thing at first – though my partner, more experienced with therapy than I, found it satisfying and realistic, as therapists are really the first port of call and would kick your problem up the chain if necessary – but the conclusion, in which Clark turns the idea that he doesn’t want to change into the idea that he doesn’t have to change – to be as profound a conclusion as you could get from that idea. The final shot of Pirate Clark, reaching for the therapist with that sad, pathetic expression is incredibly poignant; all Clark wanted to do was connect to other people.

(This also reflects that Parson’s strength lies in his command of visuals; the dialogue is incredibly overwritten)

This is how the movie all connects together. We need spaces like the Backrooms to contemplate and reflect; the more we run away from them, the more violent their expression becomes. It’s why I appreciate places like Media Magpies, where I am afforded the place to think out loud. Writing – especially handwriting, oddly enough – forces you to articulate and name feelings and thoughts, allowing you to process and name them; arthouse cinema like Backrooms give you a jumping off point for that kind of thinking. After watching the movie, I used a public toilet, and found myself looking at the room as if it were a backroom. 

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