Room in Rome takes place in one hotel room (and bathroom and balcony and a tiny bit in the hallway) on the night of the Summer Solstice. It begins with what is about to be YOUR FAVORITE SONG. I trust you can all relate to that, and for some of you that film is When Night Is Falling, so I don’t think you’re in any position to judge. This is a film I just need to meet me in my secret heart. Please no one explain to me the significance of the paintings. I don’t want to know if the two actresses hated each other in real life, or if the director is a creep, or if the entire film is an extended metaphor for the intersection of rationalist and romantic ideals. This is going to be a little different than my other Sapphic Cinema columns, because I have no intention of peppering it with little anecdotes about the film. Perhaps I have unforgivably bad taste and after this none of you will ever trust me again, but I have to speak my truth. Perhaps you have to have been single for a lot of years. I was talking to an acquaintance recently, and she listed it as an example of everything that is wrong with lesbian cinema (“Doesn’t one of the chicks, like, get shot with an arrow?”). But to hell with you all, I like Room in Rome and I’m only a little bit ashamed of it. Perhaps you have to be a hopeless romantic. Its Netflix rating, which you’d think would be buoyed up by our demographic (or at least straight guys who dig the nudity), is a paltry two and a half stars. I may be the only lesbian on Earth who likes Room in Rome. (This review was originally published on August 21, 2015.)