backroom

Hollywood has been waiting for Kane Parsons since the year he was born. The 20-year-old director is the same age as YouTube’s first videos and grew up with no barriers between his creativity and an audience. “Backrooms,” his debut feature, marks the start of a new new wave of filmmakers raised by internet feedback who are ready to reinvigorate the industry.

Young Steven Spielberg screened his 8mm reels for his neighborhood. Parsons uploaded his early shorts online where he could analyze the mass response. When one, an unsettling nine-minute experiment about a warren of dingy carpets, taffy-yellow walls and gridded drop ceilings clicked with 78 million viewers, he made sequels. A24 offered Parsons a deal before he finished high school. He’s graduating into multiplexes having spent his adolescence writing, directing, editing, composing and market-testing what people want to watch. I’d toast to that, but Parsons isn’t old enough for Champagne.

Given that backdrop, “Backrooms” would be one of the year’s most significant releases even if the movie itself was merely fine. But it’s better than fine — it’s a work of honest-to-goodness art. Working with screenwriter Will Soodik, Parsons has gone back into that banal maze to find an uncannily mature story about loss and stagnation, about how our self-serving narratives barricade us from emotional growth.

Set in 1990, “Backrooms” has the fritz of an old VHS tape. (Like so many other Gen Z kids, Parsons is nostalgic for a pre-smartphone era he never knew.) A failed architect-turned-furniture salesman named Clark (Chiwetel Ejiofor, superbly expressive) tumbles through a portal in his store’s basement to the backrooms of the title — less Alice in Wonderland, more Alice in Wonderbland.

“It’s like it was made by a bunch of construction workers on acid,” he muses. The hallways lead to more hallways, the overhead fluorescents whine like hornets. Someone — or something — has piled lamps and stools into the center of one room, scattered chairs in another and embedded shoes into the floor as though the ground were made of sand. The disorder looks like the wreckage of an unknown chaos. Aboveground, Clark is trapped in his own resentments, throwing temper tantrums like a toddler. Down here, frustration feels natural.

Should he be afraid? And if so, then what of?

Distant thuds warn that Clark isn’t alone. Soon after, three other characters follow Clark into this liminal space: his loud employees Bobby and Kat (Finn Bennett and Lukita Maxwell) and his exasperated therapist, Dr. Mary Kline (Renate Reinsve), who is haunted by flashbacks of her agoraphobic mother. There’s also a mysterious man in a lab coat (Mark Duplass) who works for a company that factors into the backrooms’ preexisting internet lore, but doesn’t have much purpose in this script. It’s fine just to see Duplass as a gesture toward corporate apathy. More beings will appear too and cinematographer Jeremy Cox’s deliberately low-fi look forces you to do triple and quadruple takes to comprehend what you’re even seeing.

How does a 20-year-old fathom adult-sized discontent? Lord knows, but Parsons does. One theory is that today’s 20-year-olds were just launching into teenhood when the pandemic teleported them from their classrooms to isolated computer screens. Meanwhile, they overheard their parents fret that society might be forever hollowed out. When a young person looks toward the future, what do they see? Probably not an office building bustling with entry-level jobs.

Think about how the act of buying a couch no longer involves interacting with a salesman like Clark, but peering at a pixelated living room that doesn’t actually exist with a couch that changes colors at a tap. Think about how lately the internet at large feels human-less. Then layer that emptiness over the images here.

Sparse yet gripping, “Backrooms” and its minimalist story accommodate the audience’s own free-ranging imagination. The infinite size of these drab catacombs triggers sense-memories of feeling small and confused in an ordinary place that feels all wrong. It’s a time travel trip back to childhood — mass entertainment made intimate — with Parsons tossing us scraps of Clark and Mary’s personal histories like a breadcrumb trail. I remembered what it felt like to get lost in a motel on a road trip with my grandparents. More recently, I tidied the home of a friend who was in the hospital, the pill bottles and crumpled blankets left in situ as evidence of someone else’s pain. “Backrooms” felt like that, too.

There’s an incredible special effects shot where the camera sinks through the floor of Mary’s living room to find a mutation of the same room — and then another and another — each replica deteriorating further from reality until it becomes a new room altogether that would fit right into the backrooms. This, we wordlessly understand, represents how memories of the past can be at once factually inaccurate and emotionally true. We’ve all been bewildered kids, Parsons more recently than most. Some of the most powerful people on Earth still behave like they’re stuck in that headspace.

Describing “Backrooms” as a horror film doesn’t feel exactly right. It’s a surrealist painting in motion, the equivalent of staring at Salvador Dali’s wasteland of melting clocks until it makes gut-sense. Dali made that famous masterpiece, “The Persistence of Memory,” in 1931, a breath-holding moment between wars when daily life looked normal enough but vibrated with the dread that no, things were definitely not OK. Kids don’t know that, but they vibe with Dali anyway because he keys into their suspicion that the world doesn’t really obey the rules.

That anxiety hums through “Backrooms.” It’s why millions of people watched and shared the original short. Yet as fraught as it sounds — and as abruptly as it ends — I left elated. A major new moviemaking talent has arrived and he’s the beginning of a movement. Other internet-honed young filmmakers will follow with their own fresh insights into genres like action, comedy and romance. Kane Parsons is just the first one through Hollywood’s labyrinth.

It’s 7:50 p.m. on a Tuesday as I enter the dimly lighted metaphysical supply store the Crooked Path. Even inside, it almost looks closed; I barely see the crystal-necklace-studded walls, the bowls of runes and bins of long, black candles around me. Half-filled glass jars (perhaps potions?) sit beyond the store’s elongated bar — the apothecary — where a silent man in black points me past Egyptian deity figurines and a large python named Drakina to … my yoga class.

The backroom that Goth Yoga LA calls home is all black paint, purple lights and sage-y smells; music growls ominously from the speaker system above. Devotees gather for the intimate, pay-what-you-can classes, held at 6:30 and 8 p.m. on Tuesday and Thursday nights. It feels like an open mic night in the Upside Down — and yes, everyone is wearing all black. Everyone but Goth Yoga LA’s leader, Brynna Beatnix. Tonight, Beatnix is giving more Y2K occult-glam. She chats with one heavily-tattooed man stretching in the corner, and welcomes in an older woman in heavy eyeliner who tentatively peeks inside. Is she in the right place? Of course she is.

Students take part in a Goth Yoga LA class, complete with burning incense.

Goth Yoga LA’s masterminds are Beatnix and her partner, James David (who DJs each class). The couple has been active in L.A.’s goth/alternative music and event scene for years, co-creating the popular outdoor roller disco event Skate Oddity during the pandemic. This “goth club on wheels,” brought an inspiring blend of physicality, niche goth music and connection to alt-Angelenos at their most isolated.

As Skate Oddity (and athletically-forward goth events like it) became more popular, so did some pretty gnarly injuries. As a response, Beatnix began hosting communal stretching sessions before the event, complete with vibey dark ‘80s, goth and post-punk soundtrack. “It started as a gathering,” Beatnix said. “And with James and my background in nightlife and music, it gained momentum and grew.”

Soon, Beatnix got her yoga certification and a couple of her goth friends, Sal Santoro and Popi Mavros, offered the backroom of their Burbank-based occult store, the Crooked Path. And from the shadowy, crystal-studded darkness Goth Yoga LA was born.

Brynna Beatnix’s classes are defined by deep stretches and dark sounds.

DJ James David provides the music for Goth Yoga LA classes.

Beatnix and David created and practice Goth Yoga LA much like yoga itself — slowly, with intentionality. It took them years to fuse music and movement to “get the space right,” and they hope that the result helps participants’ mental health. “The music and the alternative world can already be a coping mechanism. Well, yoga is also a great coping mechanism. So let’s combine the two.”

What resulted is an intimate, therapeutic yoga class shrouded in darkness (literally), where goths, alts, punks — anyone feeling outside of the norm — can work through “heavy feelings” via moody vinyasas. “It just feels really nice to be in a room of people who are kinda literally leaning into the discomfort of being in the chaos of the world right now,” says Heather Hanford, a regular at Goth Yoga LA.

For many, it’s not just about mental health but simply a more welcoming alternative to the Lululemon-coded homogeny of L.A.’s wellness culture. “Some people feel scared of going to traditional yoga studios. One, the prices are really high. Or they don’t really feel accepted there,” Beatnix says. “I’ve even had guys be like, I’m scared to go, because people are going to look at my tattoos and think that I’m a satanist and stare at me.”

The intimate Goth Yoga LA classes are distinctive because they are mostly shrouded in darkness.

And, of course, it’s not just for goths. Class participant Hanford, who identifies as a neurodivergent non-goth, experiences Goth Yoga LA as much more regulating than a mainstream yoga class. “The lighting and mood music makes it easier to focus on the internal experience than other classes I’ve taken,” she said. “Either intentionally or not, really helps minimize sensory overload.”

As we cat-cow to the Cure, the irony that goth yoga is more approachable, more calming and far less expensive than most traditional classes isn’t lost on me. With its donation-based entry, alternative clientele and bespoke DJ experience, Goth Yoga LA is like the anti-yoga of L.A’.s yoga scene. “I didn’t particularly want to rebel against the yoga studios, I just … am,” Beatnix tells me later. “We just saw something that didn’t exist, and wanted to create it.”

I know the class is coming to an end as ambient noiserock leads us into corpse pose. I inhale, letting new smells — something minty and palo santo-y, maybe? — waft over me. Now back into our original sitting positions, I’m not expecting a namaste. No, I have been warned this class concludes … differently than most.

Class participants Ellie Albertson and Jenn Rivera recline in corpse pose.

In Sanskrit, namaste translates to mean “I bow to you,” or, ”the light in me honors the light in you.” It is meant to be an invitation: a means of being deeply and profoundly seen.

“But that’s just ignoring the dark,” Beatnix says. In her opinion, to truly be seen we must acknowledge our alternative natures, our shadow sides, the otherness of our beings. “My ending is — and it ranges class to class — but generally I say, ‘the darkness in me honors and acknowledges the darkness in each and every one of you.’ We have both light and dark. We are both.”