In the crippling solitude of a padlocked garden shed, Ma (Brie Larson) and Jack (Jacob Tremblay) bestow meaning unto mundanity. Just as Max’s world is fire and blood, their world is bondage and fantasy. Each item in their life’s limited pantry becomes a proper noun. There’s Bucket, Melty Spoon, Chair 1 and Chair 2. There’s Wardrobe in which Jack sleeps, when Old Nick comes. And of course, there’s Room. Ma, unable to yet explain to her recently 5-year old son that their life is one of mere captivity, spins a wild yarn about all life existing in Room. Everything outside of Room (Jack learns of the outside world via a janky television set) is make believe. Up until now, this fiction has been their salvation, providing an insular bubble wrap for the horrific situation in which they’ve found themselves. But as the tides turn with their captor, Ma and Jack must find the fortitude to free themselves or risk spending the rest of their existence in a 100-square foot space. Or worse.

Based on the best-selling novel of the same name, Room takes a bold gaze into the psychological torment and coping mechanisms of its two protagonists. Ma must tell her story – there is only Room, there is only Room, there is only Room – over and over again, both for Jack’s impressionable young mind and her own sanity. As Jack details in shamelessly adorable narration – a keepsake from Emma Donoghue‘s novel – Ma was a lost soul before he came along. He is, in all meanings of the word, her savior. Their plight takes on a fairy tale quality – the tow-haired princess locked in a tower; the little white knight champion – but is enriched by real world mental stressors and dangerous feasibility. Sex slavery is an all-too real crisis and Room – exacerbated by Larson’s monstrous performance – gets to the heart of its psychologically crippling nature. That the picture is able to encompass both the great joys of parenthood and the impossible lows of physical and mental captivity makes the film all the more powerful.

Under their warped circumstances, normality fizzles and any normative prescription for mother-son relations are as irrelevant as they are impossible. Ma and Jack’s impossibly tight nuclear unit is a circumstance of necessity. Sure, Jack seems like a Robin Arryn protege as he takes his mother’s milk. And sure, it’s uncomfortable to hear Jack count off the strokes as his mother is raped as if he’s counting sheep. But what makes Room so potent is how Jack takes it all in stride. Their routine, for him, is normalcy. Little does Jack know that when they scream through Spotlight to the “the aliens”, Ma is still attempting to be noticed by the world that’s forgotten her. Her spirit is diminished but it’s yet to be crushed.

They find their bonds tested when captor “Old Nick” (a perfectly controlled Sean Bridgers) loses his job, thereby threatening the security of his victims. If a banker were to come pounding on his door, a few well-placed screams from the electronically bolted back shed might just be enough to win Ma and Jack their freedom. Knowing this is the case, Ma and Jack scramble to pull the rug out from under Old Nick but first Jack must be let in on a little secret: reality.

Larson handles the weighty material like a forklift, chameleoning between protective mother, bitter depressive and high-stakes gambler. Her performance is alight with emotionality and rich with nuance as Larson speaks volumes through her luminous, though perpetually distraught, eyes. The faintest flick of her pupils or the strained widening of her lids conjure immeasurable meaning. A scene that has her rushing to the arms of Jack will get even the most surly of men misty-eyed. Her role won’t go unnoticed this awards season as her turn here should be more than enough to propel her into a Oscar nomination front-runner slot.

But let’s be honest, it’s no shocker that the 26-year old up-and-comer put in the work. What will however take you by surprise is the pint-sized Tremblay, who for all intents and purposes does the majority of the heavy lifting in the film’s back-half. Larson must grapple with the raw reality of their situation but it’s in Jack coming out of his fantasy and confronting the real world that the real arc of Room lives and thrives. Though Larson’s character excels to a mid-picture crescendo, as her story fades into the background, Tremblay steps up to the plate and swings for the rafters. Whereas Jack could too easily have been a condescending character rooted in cutesiness and corn, he feels so alive; so unquestionably real. In his performance, there’s childlike wonder amplified to mountainous degrees and yet he plays it so organically, so unrehearsed and natural feeling that he’s able to deliver heartbreak on a silver platter with the smallest of gestures. My girlfriend, a regular baroness of cinematic emotionlessness, confessed to crying “four times”.That’s because Stephen Rennicks’ smartly impassioned score is a thing of danger. As strings sweep, piano keys twiddle and his musical composition crawls from its quiet corner to huge crescendos, everyone in the audience is at risk of lightly sobbing. A symphony of sniffles from the audience will threaten to drown out the film when played on less powerful speakers. Unnaturally affecting too is the set design from Ethan Tobman, who is tasked with the difficult job of bring Room to life. He injects many layers of meaning into the design of Room that’s characteristic of both its oppressive and homey nature. It’s truly great work.

Conducting the orchestra of emotion, Lenny Abrahamson is a quiet beast behind the camera. He’s moved beyond the enigmatic philosophizing of Frank into a realm equally heady but more spiritually accomplished. While Frank explored a man’s search for belonging, Room explores a woman’s relationship with her own existence and Abrahamson doesn’t back away from the more ferocious elements involved in such a battle. He also doesn’t pad the film with unneeded sentiment; he knows the dramatic angles to harness and ropes them to submission elegantly. Like Frank, there’s thistly layers to peel back and deeper meaning around every corner. Unlike Frank, Room is assured to be a commercial and critical hit, if not a formidable awards contender.

CONCLUSION: A healthy dose of heartbreak and humor gives ‘Room’ dramatic gravitas in spades. Add in two top-of-the-line performances from Brie Larson and Jacob Tremblay and you have a picture not to be missed.