Mother Mary Is Arty, Self-Conscious, and a Complete Slog

(SeaPRwire) –   Film enthusiasts generally appreciate being caught off guard: we enjoy solid plot twists, atmospheric eeriness, and creative surreal touches. (Think of a woman with cauliflower cheeks singing into a radiator.) However, the more films one watches, the less tolerance one might have for movies that attempt to dazzle solely with their eccentricity. This perfectly encapsulates writer-director David Lowery’s Mother Mary.

Anne Hathaway portrays Mary, a mega-famous singer with a devoted following reminiscent of Lady Gaga or Taylor Swift, known for putting on lavish, theatrical performances. Her wardrobe consists largely of minuscule dresses or bodysuits highlighting her great legs; her eye makeup gleams like car paint, and her hair, straightened like Cher’s in 1971, is always crowned with a spiked halo. She is a blend of the holy and the profane—the tracks in the film’s short concert segments are penned by artists such as Charli XCX, Jack Antonoff, and FKA Twigs, with the latter also appearing as a hippie mystic. Yet as Mary approaches a new tour, possibly her last, something feels amiss. She is unraveling, and she becomes convinced that a new dress—one that embodies her authentic self—is the only remedy.

However, this dress must be crafted by a specific woman, someone with whom she shares a deep intimacy, despite her attempts to cut ties years ago. That woman is Sam Anselm (Michaela Coel), a designer of apparent genius comparable to Alexander McQueen. Mary, wearing a disheveled off-duty ensemble of a droopy sweater and flat hair, rushes to Sam’s drafty, gothic-rustic studio located in the countryside of some unnamed European country. In the ominous psychic voiceover that begins the movie, Sam has foreseen Mary’s coming and is far from pleased about it. Their history is revealed in fragments: Sam was crucial in establishing the Mother Mary persona early in Mary’s career, and it is strongly suggested that they shared a romantic connection as well. Mary then cut off contact with Sam, or attempted to, yet the bond linking them persists a decade later. Their relationship is mystical, uniquely feminine, and indissoluble. A ghost is also part of the equation, a visual manifestation of their link, and she appears to be in rather foul spirits.

That description might make Mother Mary seem more fascinating than it actually is. With the exception of a few short, smartly arranged concert scenes and a couple of flashbacks, almost the entire film unfolds within the spacious studio, where Mary and Sam bicker and needle each other. Sam, as played by Coel, is composed and tranquil, yet clearly furious, making no attempt to hide it. Hathaway’s Mary is chaotic, delicate, and trembling with anxiety, the antithesis of her stage persona. Nevertheless, she is demanding—she arrives on a Thursday and insists on having her special dress by Sunday. Sam initially refuses, but is somehow persuaded to agree. As she measures her former friend, she observes a long scar running down Mary’s back (we can assume the story behind this will emerge) and comments on her weight loss. “You’ve gotten so tiny,” she murmurs. “The tiniest intruder.” At this stage, you might still be curious about the psychosexual dynamic between these two: what transpired, and what drove them apart? But soon enough, you may be too bored to wonder. There are occasional moments of skin piercing with sharp objects, serving as reminders that this is a horror film, but they are insufficient to animate the story.

Mother Mary is heavy on dialogue. Sam throws out an accusation; Mary offers a weak defense. Sam occasionally drapes a piece of fabric across Mary’s face—she is a designer, after all, even if this psychodrama is supposedly about far more than a garment. The final gown, designed by experimental couturier Iris van Herpen, is at least a wonder of nautilus-like pleating. The ghost’s appearance, visualized as a ripple of color, provides a slight spark of interest. Yet even this specter is too polite and overly polished to leave a lasting impression. Coel, who recently appeared as a cunning art forger in Steven Soderbergh’s excellent comedy-drama The Christophers, has a serene, captivating presence, but her part here as the angry, spurned lover is unrewarding. Hathaway shines in the concert sequences—radiating commanding power and showing off her impressive legs—but is far less engaging in Mary’s off-duty moments; there are only so many ways to render a pool of neuroses compelling.

Lowery has directed some small yet successful films (A Ghost Story, The Old Man and the Gun) and some highly ornate ones (such as The Green Knight, a 14th-century fairytale spectacle). But Mother Mary, with its artsy and self-aware tone, is simply a chore. It strives too hard to dazzle with its sleek oddity, which is not the same thing as being genuinely odd. Sometimes a dress is merely a dress, regardless of how hard a filmmaker works to elevate it.