Private Parts

In the waning glow of downtown Los Angeles, the King Edward Hotel stands as a crumbling relic, its faded grandeur and dim corridors hinting at secrets that linger long after the lights go out. The building’s oppressive atmosphere is a character in its own right—its cracked walls, aging carpet, and perpetual draft create a sense of confinement that feels both intimate and unsettling, a perfect backdrop for a story that walks the line between melancholy and menace.

Cheryl arrives at the hotel after a sudden break with her roommate, clutching only the remnants of a life she’s leaving behind. Seeking refuge, she discovers that the proprietor is her estranged aunt, Martha, a stern woman who clings to the notion that the King Edward is “one of the last respectable hotels in the city.” Martha’s rigid rules and distant demeanor set a tone of uneasy hospitality, offering Cheryl a fragile safety net while simultaneously urging her to stay within the hotel’s shadowed limits.

Within this labyrinthine setting, George emerges—a mysterious photographer who occupies the hotel’s basement darkroom. His presence is magnetic yet disquieting; he treats Cheryl with a tenderness that feels both protective and objectifying, as if she were a living sculpture. At the same time, a nameless resident prowls the dim hallways, exuding a palpable, unsettling energy that suggests something far more dangerous lurks just beyond the reach of ordinary guests.

The film swirls with a brooding, almost tactile tension, where desire and dread intertwine in the flickering neon of the hotel’s lobby and the echoing steps on its stairwells. As Cheryl navigates the fragile alliances and hidden currents of this decaying world, the audience is drawn into a suspenseful dance of curiosity and unease, wondering what—if anything—will emerge from the shadows of the King Edward.

Last Updated: December 04, 2025 at 23:03