The Architecture of Anxiety: How Liminal Spaces Reflect Our Inner Turmoil
There’s something profoundly unsettling about liminal spaces—those in-between places that feel neither here nor there. Personally, I think it’s because they mirror the chaos of our own minds. Take, for instance, the concept of the 'backrooms,' a phenomenon that’s gone from niche internet obsession to full-blown cinematic exploration. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it taps into a collective unease, one that’s amplified in an age of AI and existential dread.
The Allure of the In-Between
Liminal spaces are the architectural equivalent of a shrug. They’re the leftover bits—corridors, stairwells, empty lobbies—that architects often treat as afterthoughts. From my perspective, this is where their power lies. They’re not designed to be lived in; they’re meant to be passed through. Yet, it’s this very ambiguity that draws us in. Think about the last time you wandered through an airport or an IKEA: that disorienting feeling of being both lost and strangely free. It’s like the space is saying, ‘You don’t belong here, but you’re welcome to stay.’
What many people don’t realize is that liminal spaces aren’t just physical; they’re psychological. They’re the mental backrooms we all have—those places where our anxieties fester and our identities blur. The film Backrooms takes this idea literally, turning a disappointed architect’s breakdown into a surreal journey through endless, unfinished rooms. If you take a step back and think about it, it’s a metaphor for modern life: we’re all just trying to navigate spaces that feel increasingly alienating.
The Rise of Liminal Aesthetics
In recent years, liminal spaces have become their own aesthetic category—a kind of late-capitalist sublime. It’s an acquired taste, like appreciating the beauty of scaffolding or the dissonance of Messiaen’s music. But what this really suggests is that we’re craving spaces that reflect our inner turmoil. The backrooms, with their eerie familiarity and unsettling strangeness, are the perfect canvas for this.
One thing that immediately stands out is how the film’s director, Kane Parsons, uses these spaces to explore themes of entrapment and identity. The protagonist becomes trapped in the backrooms, unable to leave as he sees more of himself in the environment. It’s a troubling analogy for our online lives—the more we engage, the harder it is to disconnect. Personally, I think this is a brilliant commentary on doom-scrolling and the way we’re all becoming prisoners of our own digital backrooms.
The Architect’s Dilemma
The film’s focus on a disillusioned architect adds another layer of depth. Here’s a person trained to create meaningful spaces, yet he’s reduced to selling furniture—a job adjacent to but separate from his passion. This raises a deeper question: what happens when the spaces we design no longer serve us? In a world where AI threatens to make human creativity obsolete, the architect’s struggle feels eerily prescient.
A detail that I find especially interesting is how the backrooms evolve as the protagonist progresses. They start as crude, unfinished spaces but gradually become more sophisticated, like someone learning 3D modeling software. It’s as if the environment is growing alongside him, reflecting his own mental state. This isn’t just clever filmmaking; it’s a profound statement about how we shape—and are shaped by—the spaces we inhabit.
The Paradox of Influence
Parsons’ disavowal of explicit influences is both refreshing and provocative. In an industry obsessed with references, his work stands out for its originality. But here’s the irony: while he claims no precedents, the film is steeped in them. From video games to psychiatric theory, Backrooms is a tapestry of cultural touchstones. What this really suggests is that true originality isn’t about avoiding influence; it’s about transforming it into something entirely new.
Why Architects Should Pay Attention
As someone who’s spent years thinking about design, I can’t help but feel that architects have a lot to learn from Parsons. His insistence on physical sets, his commitment to craftsmanship—it’s a rebuke to the digital-first mindset that dominates the industry. In an era where AI threatens to make everything instantaneous, his approach feels almost revolutionary. If you ask me, he’s not just making films; he’s redefining what it means to create.
Final Thoughts
The backrooms aren’t just a cinematic gimmick; they’re a mirror to our collective psyche. They force us to confront the spaces we’ve neglected—both in our buildings and in ourselves. As we dive deeper into the age of AI, these liminal spaces will only become more relevant. They’re a reminder that sometimes, the most unsettling places are the ones that tell us the most about who we are.
So, the next time you find yourself in a liminal space—whether it’s a dimly lit corridor or a never-ending scroll—take a moment to reflect. What does this space say about you? And more importantly, how can you escape it? Because, as Backrooms so brilliantly shows, the scariest thing about liminal spaces isn’t that they exist—it’s that we might never leave.
