ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Exploitation-film historian A.C. Nicholas, who has a sketchy background and hails from parts unknown in Western Pennsylvania, was once a drive-in theater projectionist and disk jockey. In addition to being a writer, editor, podcaster, voice-over artist, and sometime actor and stand-up comedian, he’s a regular guest co-host on the streaming Drive-In Asylum Double Feature and panelist on the Deep Images podcast and has made multiple appearances on Making Tarantino: The Podcast. He also contributes to the Drive-In Asylum fanzine, the B & S About Movies Podcast, and the Horror and Sons website. He currently programs a monthly film series, A.C. Nicholas’s Hidden Gems, at The Babylon Kino in Columbia, South Carolina.

“Show. Don’t tell.” This adage is as old as film itself. Looking at the first quarter of the twenty-first century, perhaps screenwriters have taken that statement too much to heart. Apart from the few films written by folks who can write memorable dialogue, like Quentin Tarantino and David Mamet, the typical film or TV show today is an empty spectacle, or as my father used to say, “parada,” Polish for “show” or “exhibition.” Fathers of my generation would tell kids, “You’d better stop your crying, or I’ll knock you into next Wednesday,” but my dad always used parada when sternly presaging an ass-whipping: “Don’t make a big parada out of it.” And that describes your typical $200 million Hollywood blockbuster—empty, soulless, and cynical, just a series of huge action set pieces strung together by the most perfunctory narrative, a big parada. (Quick, how many films in the past 25 years deal with a fight over “magic junk” or advanced technology, something that if it falls into the hands of the wrong people will cause mass destruction? There’s a Letterboxd list for you, Sam.) Let’s just say the era of dialogue-driven films–“all tell, no show”–such as My Dinner with Andre, Swimming to Cambodia, and Before Sunrise, is but a distant memory 

Which brings us to a weird little item called The Room at the End, which had its genesis as a web series of 62 two-minute episodes. They were later strung together and shown on Canadian and British television before floating around streaming services in this country. How I discovered it years ago, I cannot remember. But it’s something I’ll never forget. It’s one of the best things I’ve ever seen, from anywhere, from any era, in any medium. And, apart from a handful of reviews and posts online, it remains largely unknown. But not for long, I hope.

In the end booth of an old-school diner, sits a rumpled guy with a pen and a book. He’s never referred to by name. He’s just “The Man,” and he’s played by long-time character actor Xander Berkeley. As each vignette begins, he’s sitting there, perhaps reading the newspaper or having coffee, when he’s approached by someone who has heard that he can help them with a problem. A man has a terminally ill child. A young woman wants to be prettier. A nun has lost her faith. Each of them tells their story to The Man, who says that what they want can happen, but first, they must complete a task and return to report the details of carrying out that task. He then opens his book, jots a note or two, and tells them what they must do to receive their desire. For the man, his kid will get better if… he kills someone else’s child. For the young woman, she’ll be prettier if… she steals $101,043 from some banks. (The randomness of that number is like the randomness of the universe.) And the nun will hear God again if… she gets pregnant. The Man also tells each of them that they can walk away from his offer. In follow-up vignettes, we hear the decision each made and what happened.

The compiled vignettes form two seasons with a total of 10 approximately 23-minute episodes. (You can, as I did, binge the entire series in an afternoon. And once you get started, I’m betting you will.) Each episode follows the same format: Here is the diner, here is The Man in the booth at the end, and here are the clients entering one after another to either make a deal or give The Man updates. The only other character is a waitress named Doris, who takes on a greater significance in the second season when The Man sets up shop in the booth at the end of a different diner.

Who is The Man? Does he have supernatural powers? What is the significance of the book? How will the clients respond to their assigned tasks? Some of those tasks even intertwine. For example, the guy who must kill a child is unknowingly pitted against a guy whose task is to protect a child. In the end, how do these stories resolve? I think the true nature of the show is subtly found in its title: The Booth at the End. Yes, it’s the “end” booth in the diner, but “end” could also refer to the existential end of a person’s hope.

This is all the brainchild of writer/creator Christopher Kubasik, who got his start working on video games and writing tie-in novels. It’s easy to see that, in writing cut scenes for video games, he had the perfect training to write short-form internet content. Based on The Booth at the End, I wish he’d do more stuff. I was surprised to discover that there was a 2017 Italian movie adaptation of the show called The Place, which was nominated for a whole bunch of Donatello awards, the Italian Oscars. I must seek it out. 

Now before you cry “rip-off of Needful Things by Steve King from the University of Maine,” let me remind you that this plot about getting what you wished for–and then regretting it–has been around for ages and not just in the various adaptions of the short story The Monkey’s Paw. Folklore about wish fulfilment and its consequences goes back to the tales of the Arabian Nights. The Booth at the End is built upon a sturdy and reliable trope. And what makes it so special is how it subverts our expectations of that “genie and three wishes” plot. It does so entirely with dialogue. That’s right. Nothing is shown. Everything is discussed. In each vignette, a client sits in that booth and has a conversation with The Man. And these conversations are riveting, philosophical, and often horrifying. For, you see, life is like that, and Kubasik has stripped everything away, the action, the violence, the special effects, “the showing,” if you will, to concentrate on the thoughtful “telling”–and not a big parada.

On paper, this minimalistic approach would appear either boring or, at best, “twee,” as a cinephile friend likes to say. But watch a two-minute chunk, and you’ll see that it’s breathtakingly brilliant. The stories grab your attention with their complex dilemmas. Forgive me for using that overworked expression that you could do a semester college class in philosophy–or screenwriting–about the show, but it’s spot-on here. (The movie Groundhog Day similarly fits the description.) You, as the viewer, are drawn into this small, bell-jar universe of right and wrong, morality and immorality, and good and evil. It’s impossible not to ponder how you would react if faced with the same decisions The Man’s clients must make. The stories are like modern parables. 

And Kubasik tells these stories like the caveman who told his friends around the campfire how Ook fell into the pile of mammoth dung on their hunting trip, unadorned with CGI or VFX. It’s the oldest, yet most powerful, narrative device: simple storytelling. Too many filmmakers today forget the power of the spoken word. 

But an equally important reason this show succeeds, in addition to the weighty ideas and impressive writing, is the brilliant central performance by Xander Bekeley as The Man. All the actors here are good to great, but this is Berkeley’s day in the sun. While you might not recall his name, you’ll recognize him as a character actor who’s been kicking around for decades, quietly doing solid work in TV shows such as 24, Nikita, and The Walking Dead and the movies Candyman, Air Force One, and Heat, among many others. Lucy Mangan of The Guardian said Berkeley’s performance should be “used as an acting masterclass.” That’s 100% accurate. When the nun, played by Berkeley’s real-life wife, Sarah Clarke, asks him how she can be sure he’s not the devil, Berkeley’s delivery of “you can’t” is chilling. He’s so compelling that he could read a diner menu and be mesmerizing. But he’s equally compelling in his reactions to the details that his clients give him. He may be in a minimalistic show, but his acting is anything but minimal. He’s fantastic, demonstrating that sometimes the greatest acting is not always done by the big star in the big parada.

Over the years, I’ve recommended The Booth at the End to friends with discerning taste—this is not something you recommend to someone like that person who many years ago posted on a CompuServe board I moderated that Grease was the greatest movie ever made–yet no one has ever listened to me and watched it. I guess that description of “all tell, no show” was a buzzkill. Anyway, you’re an exceptional discerning person: Go watch The Booth at the End, which is streaming on Tubi. And then give me the details. I’ll be waiting for you at the booth at the end… of the drive-in snack bar.