May 28, 2018
Issue 6 2018
Lit Fam or Shit Scam?

The Roxy

I promise you, before this article has ended, I will have ruined your day. I’m feeling a tad malicious as of late, probably due to the overwhelming torrent of numbers and words that is uni. I’ve finally reached the stage where I’m over it. Apparently, every student reaches that point sometime during their study, usually during their third or fourth year. I’m not talking about not enjoying uni, each year has enough stress to snap a two-inch thick rubber dildo, yet we manage to keep on tugging. No, I’m talking about the sudden realisation that you’re ready move on with your life. I’m sorry university, it’s not you, it’s me.

But in these times of pressure, exhaustion, and ‘Having No Idea What’s Going On With Your Life’ ™, finding the little things in life to enjoy can make it all worthwhile. Whether it’s Brooklyn Nine Nine, the 48 Hours Film Festival, or my personal favourite (which we’ll get to very shortly), everyone finds their little escape from what can feel like an ocean of unanswered thoughts.

Which brings us to my favourite escape, a brilliant masterpiece, a milestone in the history of cinema, the finest, most succulent film ever produced.

The Room.

I’m writing the rest of this article assuming that you’ve seen it. If you, for some godforsaken reason, haven’t already seen The Room, then stop reading here, and put it at the top of your priorities list. I don’t care if your assignment is due this Friday, I cannot rest easy knowing that humans who haven’t seen The Room exist, and they walk among us like poor unherded sheep.

Go on, I’ll wait for you.

Welcome back, dear reader! I trust your experience was enlightening. Now we may continue.

As a man of culture, I have seen The Room six times. The sixth time happened to be the best stress break I’ve ever had. My coworker came up with the idea. She told me The Roxy does late night screenings of The Room every month, and suggested we go on a double date. So, I dragged my poor girlfriend along to see this monstrosity. Again.

The Roxy is an art deco theatre situated in Miramar that opened in 2011. It was built on top of the remains of a hospital that burnt down, the very same hospital in which Peter Jackson was born.

I’m kidding about the hospital thing, but the truth is still very interesting. If you go to their website, you can learn about how it was built, what was there originally, and why Lord of The Rings can be a pain in the orc. The interior is stunning, decorated to perfectly enhance the architecture. It even has creepy faces carved into the arches next to the sconces (that’s right, I know words). It also has a restaurant, which I didn’t have time to sample, but is composed of some really talented individuals, so take my word for it that you’ll find something tasty.

Once a month, The Roxy screens The Room, and although I’ve seen it before many times, none of those times were as luxurious as this. With big leather chairs that make you feel like you’re being cosily digested, perfect room temperature that makes you feel like you’re being cosily digested, and a titanic tray full of plastic spoons that are impartial to the feeling of being cosily digested, The Roxy has everything you need for a late-night Room Romp. To this very day, The Roxy still manages to sell out tickets.

My coworkers partner was dressed up as the titular idiot Johnny, played by the soulless, watery eyes of Tommy Wiseau. A nice touch which would soon turn out to be far more impressive and thought out than first perceived.

The movie was fantastic as usual. I swear everytime I see it, it gets better. The shots get more out of focus, the acting gets worse, the spine-kneadingly awkward sex scenes multiply and drag on for longer, and the dropped plotlines grow exponentially. As you may know, a cult tradition is to throw spoons whenever a picture of a spoon appears in the film. I believe the reason for this is that Tommy bought a plethora of stock frames and forgot to take out the stock photos of spoons. Personally, I think it qualifies as vaguely interesting decor, but when the sight of it results in Fire and Brimstone of the spoon kind, it becomes more than just poor set design. It becomes war.

One of the best scenes in the movie is when Tommy mutters to himself about being falsely accused of domestic violence, cascading into a series of verbal denials, before hurling an empty water bottle to the ground. This scene was augmented by the fact that my coworkers partner had concealed a bottle of his own until this very point in time. I swear to you, the timing in which he hurled the bottle in sync with the real Tommy was more precise than a brain surgeon on Ritalin performing microscopic origami with a laser while in a zen trance.

Roughly an hour and a half of shit-talking later, the lights came on, and we promised we would come back every month. Next time we might wear tuxedos and play football, who knows?

I had a fantastic time, and although I’ve been trying to be more critical, so I can achieve what is hopefully an entertaining balance of ‘Lit Fams’ and ‘Shit Scams’, I just can’t bring myself to give The Roxy anything less than 5/5 Mothers With Breast Cancer That People Should Really Start Listening To, therefore it’s Hella Lit Fam.

Oh, and I promised I’d ruin your day before this article is over, so let me inform you that Mark Zuckerberg got off scot free after his congress hearing, and is still saving your private information in a giant cloud server for the eventual day that his people invade our planet and we become slaves to the lizards.

Next Issue - A Hairy Situation