There is something about John Irving’s books that are so profoundly cinematic, despite them being works that are often quite intimate and internal. He’s become quite a cherished writer in terms of putting together stories that are deeply sentimental, but still have a jagged edge to them, which hints at much deeper meaning lurking just below the surface. Many have questioned which of his novels has been most faithfully adapted to the screen, and while there are proponents for both The World According to Garp and The Cider House Rules (the latter a classic of sentimental cinema), it is almost an unimpeachable truth that The Door in the Floor is the best work based on Irving’s writings. Derived from the first third of his novel A Widow for One Year, the film is a remarkable piece of filmmaking that is written and directed by Tod Williams, an underrated filmmaker whose previous film, The Adventures of Sebastian Cole, is a much better work than its relatively obscure reputation would suggest. The story centres on a writer and his wife navigating the period after the death of their two sons in a tragic accident, as well as the arrival of a young man to act as their assistant, only to discover that his duties extend far more than just helping in their day-to-day routine, becoming something of a surrogate son to them, if not more. It’s an offbeat, meaningful combination of interesting ideas and a strong sense of direction, which culminates in a simple but evocative story of overcoming grief and seeing the hope that the future holds, but not without acknowledging the journey there is treacherous and filled with challenges, which are more easily navigated with the right amount of support and guidance, often from the most unlikely of sources.

Looking at The Door in the Floor from a distance, it’s easy to mistake it for the kind of overwrought melodrama that repels as many people as it attracts – after all, the early 2000s were filled to the brim with these overly sentimental dramas about people navigating a major loss, and finding their lives undergoing considerable change as a result of some enormous event that changes the course of their existence. Irving’s work has rarely lent itself to much critical theory in terms of how he uses emotions, and Williams certainly is not aiming to change much of that, with this film having a very similarly melancholic tone to it. However, this discredits the fact that, at its most fundamental level, this is a perfect balance of comedy and drama, the quintessential example of finding the inherent comedy in the pain of contemporary existence. There is always merit in finding the right blend of humour and pathos, which is more close to reality than focusing on one of the two extremes. The Door in the Floor captures both, and seamlessly weaves them together through looking at the story as more than just a series of overly maudlin conversations centring around the inevitability of death. Credit must be given to Williams for taking such tricky material and turning it into a truly compelling film, especially since the story here is only covered by a third of the actual novel, but yet feels like such a complete, well-crafted work all on its own, one that leaves very little room for ambiguity or confusion, despite this being only a partial adaptation of Irving’s fascinating novel, which carries some riveting discussions on these fundamental themes, which Williams provokes and reworks into this stunning work of complex fiction.

There is a lot of meaning underpinning this film, and while we can reduce this to a simple story about the process of managing grief and coming to terms with the fact that life has many tragedies. However, this does neglect the fact that there are many other complex themes interwoven into the fabric of the film. Primarily, The Door in the Floor is about the complex interplay between a group of characters, each one orbiting around a particularly tragic event – some of them carry the burden of experiencing it firsthand, while the others seemingly only exist in this space as a result of the tragedy, being merely tools to aid in the grieving process, which becomes increasingly more clear the more we learn about these events. The central narrative then goes in several other directions, and we are presented with conversations around the artistic process, an intergenerational friendship and the process of moving on, whether from a traumatic incident, or simply from a marriage that has grown loveless over time. We find ourselves utterly enthralled by some of these ideas, which is a strange turn of events for a film that is primarily fueled by the idea of death. There’s a deeper meaning to every conversation in the film, and while it takes time to fully unearth all of its secrets, its certainly worthwhile, since the eventual revelations are some of the most stunning moments in the entire film, and contribute to the deep sense of persistent melancholy that propels the film, which is then undercut by a caustic sense of humour that shows that even in the most serious of situations, there’s room for some laughter, at least in terms of showing the absurdity that is inherent to everyday life.

At heart of The Door in the Floor are two characters that are undergoing their own individual journey of self-discovery, navigating their internal quandaries through outward expressions of their emotions. The first is the character played by Jeff Bridges, while the second is his young protege, portrayed by the promising newcomer Jon Foster. Many have considered this to be Bridges’ best performance (although with a career that was wide and diverse as his, it’s understandable that such a proclamation would be controversial), and he is certainly doing excellent work here. This is the quintessential Bridges performance, insofar as it makes use of both his incredible screen presence, but also allows him to run the gamut of emotions. He is both funny and heartbreaking in the role of a writer who conceals his grief and trauma under the guise of an easygoing bon vivant, someone who uses his wealth and relative fame to lead a life of quiet excess, not realizing that running away from the past doesn’t mean it can’t catch up to him, which makes the presence of his new assistant so challenging, since it brings back several haunting memories that he would prefer to ignore. Kim Basinger also gives possibly her best performance as Bridges’ estranged wife, someone who has found herself expressing her grief in the opposite way – while the character of Ted prefers to hide his trauma, Marion openly mourns, to the point where their previously loving marriage falls apart, which isn’t helped by the presence of Eddie, who reminds them both of their deceased sons. The peculiar aspect of The Door in the Floor is that there isn’t a singular focus – Bridges, Foster and Basinger are all central to the story, and even when one isn’t on screen, their presence is still felt, contributing enormously to the overall story and creating an unforgettable tapestry of a group of people finding themselves dealing with different challenges.

For some inexplicable reason, The Door in the Floor is not as fondly remembered as the several other melodramatic films that were produced around this time. One potential reason for its subdued reputation is contained in the disparity between expectation and reality – while most would think that this is going to be an excessively sentimental story, Williams approaches Irving’s text with a more forthright method of interrogating these ideas. There’s a lot of emotion here, but none of it is unearned, specifically because most of these ideas are presented with a very harsh tone, almost as if Williams is trying to counteract the audience’s expectations that this material would lends itself to mawkish posturing, rather than a genuine expression of the challenges that come with navigating grief. It’s a very simple story, but it has a vitriolic component that keeps us at arm’s length, which may seem like a criticism, but actually serves a noble purpose. We’re outsiders, peering into the lives of these characters living their affluent lives, and rather than trying to make it relatable and endearing. The questionable actions by these characters undercut the very moving story about the difficult nature of processing grief, and leads to a much more complex film that is simmering with a quiet intensity that is simultaneously heartbreaking and often very funny, but in a way that feels earned. It’s a poetic film about the difficulties that come about when life presents us with a major obstacle, as well as a fervent and triumphant story of finding hope in the ambiguities that are just as inevitable as the very direct challenges that we are all bound to face at some point, which this film explores with compassion, humour and neverending empathy.