Igor Drljaca’s The Waiting Room is an English and Bosnian language feature set in Toronto, a somber character study of a wholly unfulfilled man and a film that is as much about the struggles of being an actor as it is about the immigrant experience. But what could be a convoluted film is presented in such an utterly understated way, it’s a story of disappointment told in detached, meticulous scenes. Drljaca’s portrayal isn’t cold per se, but it is distanced. And that stark treatment of the subject matter presents an obstacle to full immersion in the story.
The film opens with Jasmin (Jasmin Geljo), a Bosnian-born actor, preparing to shoot a scene where he and his fictional family drive along an idyllic highway on their return to Sarajevo. The role is certainly closer to home than most of the vaguely Eastern-European villains he normally plays. But Jasmin’s face is completely inscrutable, betraying no personal emotions, and as the projected road gives way to a retreating shot of the mountains surrounding the city, we cut to Jasmin driving along a rainy Toronto highway toward his home of 20 years. A capsule of the film at large, this sequence features no dialogue beyond the off-camera exchanges of the film crew. Instead, the images themselves and the symbolism within the frame advance the narrative.
What we learn piecemeal of Jasmin is that he is juggling two lives and two jobs. When acting offers no more than stereotyped villainy, he turns to construction. And when his second wife and son Daniel (Filip Geljo) seem to understand so little about his Bosnian past, his thoughts turn to his father back home and his former acting success in a televised stage show. The pull of Bosnia is stronger than ever, but Jasmin’s yearning manifests itself in regret. He sees the specter of a daughter he never had. He visits his ailing first wife. His joy at recreating his live shows for fellow Bosnian expats is dampened by the ire of auditions. Casting directors ask him to pepper some rage in his native tongue and play the gangster as more sinister, so Jasmin complies. Little do they know that Jasmin’s additions consist of exclamations of “Who wrote this crap?” and pleas to “Shoot the director.”
If there is a supreme stillness about Jasmin, that is multiplied tenfold by cinematographer Roland Echavarria. He and Drljaca favor static, medium shots almost to a fault, framing Jasmin within his immediate surroundings while exaggerating his estrangement from those around him. There’s an interesting dynamic at play, here, with lengthy shots, static in themselves, of Jasmin sitting in an immobile car rig or, alternatively, on a fast-moving train. In either case, the only signal of movement comes from the scenery, whether real or a mere projection. The sharp juxtaposition lends credence to the notion that Jasmin is thoroughly stuck, with no outlet in either reality or fantasy.
Actual narrative incident is rare. Instead, The Waiting Room reads more as a collection of vignettes in the frustrated life of a man resigned to disappointment. Geljo, for his part, has the perfect demeanor for such a closed-off, time-worn character, and his frequent scoffs betray long-festering emotions even if they don’t overly telegraph them. Yet as the film draws to a close, its pervasive dreariness wears on the viewer, and it engenders more fatigue than it does sympathy for Jasmin. In emphasizing Jasmin’s own isolation, Drljaca unfortunately alienates his audience, preventing them from appreciating the totality of such a reticent man’s sorrow.
