Pop stars have long dominated the zeitgeist. They’re cultural touchpoints that both shape and reflect the culture back at feverish audiences that feel deeply connected despite not knowing these people at all. Joining the lineup of fictional pop stars is Mother Mary, written and directed by David Lowery. Known for A Ghost Story and The Green Knight, Lowery wouldn’t necessarily be the first person one thinks of when it comes to female pop stars. But his esoteric, auteur-driven sensibilities enable him to flip the pop script on its head and examine stardom in a way that sets him apart from his peers.
In an age with more access than ever, we see our best and brightest stars build invisible barriers. Whether it’s Beyoncé, Taylor Swift, or Lady Gaga, all have consciously set firmer boundaries in an effort to keep their private lives private. Though they are honest and authentic in their craft, the women we see on stage aren’t fully representative of the women they are when the stadium lights come back on, and they go back to the hotel. Lowery takes this idea and examines what happens when the person outside of the stadium becomes a shell at the expense of the entity on the stage.
Mother Mary centers on the iconic pop star Mother Mary (Anne Hathaway), who is on the precipice of making a comeback after stepping away for a personal crisis. However, she feels the dress designed for the show does not represent her accurately and seeks out her estranged best friend and costume designer Sam (Michaela Coel). Over the course of the evening, the two reopen the wounds haunting them.
One could easily assume this film would be the Anne Hathaway Pop Power Hour. But, surprisingly, Lowery opts to scale back for most of the film, allowing Mother Mary to unfold like a chamber piece between the two. We are mostly confined to Sam’s warehouse as these two hash it out.
That’s not to say Lowery’s scaled back on visual flair or spectacle. But the decision to allow this to function as a chamber piece creates room for the central relationship and, thus, the myriad themes he’s exploring, to take center stage.
As the film’s tagline states, “This is not a ghost story. This is not a love story.” It has shades of both, but Lowery is much more interested in the suffocation of persona in the pop landscape and how one preserves the human, shouldering it. In Lowery’s case, you must exorcise it like a demon.
As the central pop star Mother Mary, Hathaway oscillates between the larger-than-life persona and broken human suffocating beneath it with impeccable ease. When she’s on stage performing, she almost floats, inhaling every ounce of energy being thrown her way. If you didn’t know better, you’d think she’d been a pop star for decades.
Though she is no stranger to singing in movies, the role requires Hathaway to utilize her voice in a much different way. She’s developed a specific cadence and delivery that feels intrinsic to the mythos of Mother Mary. The theatricality is backed by actual vocal chops, and it’s completely believable as to how she’s become the icon she is.
Offstage, a switch flips. Mary’s sentences are clipped and soft, and we can see her crawling in her skin. She feels like another woman entirely. This version of Mary is fragile, tired, haunted. Hathaway strikes a pitch-perfect duality and elevates Lowery’s thematic exploration.
Though the movie is named after Hathaway’s character, it is Coel who almost runs away with the entire thing. While Mary feels like a force dwindling with each second, Sam fills entire spaces thanks to Coel’s gravitas. Coel maneuvers through the film with impeccable command of the text, elevating each monologue to Shakespearean heights. She’s always brilliant, but watching her bite into Lowery’s words feels like an exhilarating stretch for her.
Ironically, when they are alone together, Sam displays more natural showmanship than Mary. Mary can easily turn it on, but Sam oozes gusto as Coel’s presence fills every nook and cranny in the room. The decision is an excellent subversion of the relationship.
Separately, these women are magical, but together Coel and Hathaway access something cosmic. They share a heartbeat as they play with physicality in response to each other’s presence. So much unspoken history pulses between them, channeled by unspoken smiles, familiar rhythms, and longing gazes. These two characters see each other so clearly that they’re able to speak for the other, and Hathaway and Coel come pretty close to that level as they intertwine themselves in the other’s performance.
When Mary initially tries to convince Sam to make her a new dress, Sam asks what was wrong with the original design. Mary simply says it didn’t feel like her. Yet, when Sam asks Mary what she envisions for the gown, she isn’t able to put it into words. Sam is able to pull it out of her by reading her gestures.
Mary knows when something doesn’t feel like her, but, because the persona of Mother Mary has steered the ship for so long, she doesn’t fully know who she actually is anymore. Sam truly knows her and, in reconnecting, Mary hopefully can reconnect with who she actually is.
It’s clear early on that Mother Mary isn’t just one singular person; she holds just as much of Sam as she does Mary. Sam just doesn’t get acknowledged for it. However, that lack of acknowledgment frees Sam from the burden of the mantle that her former collaborator is visibly crumbling under.
The lens also broadens to bring in an examination of the relationship between artist and muse. While the muse is used to draw the vision from the artist, there is still so much of the artist’s personhood woven into the piece. Sam uses Mary as a canvas, but the colors she uses to paint come directly from her own veins.
Lowery adds another layer of “fabric” to the garment he builds, coating the entire thing with a guttural pain that haunts the two women. Not only are they unable to divorce the other from their work, but all their collaborations are soaked in a shade of crippling pain that sullies the whole thing. Sam outright refuses to listen to Mary’s music. Mary’s signature halo, conceived by Sam, physically hurts to wear. The pieces they constructed to build Mother Mary are now harmful, and the whole entity hovers like a dark cloud.
Lowery takes these ideas and drastically shifts gears about halfway through the film. He steers the story into a much dreamier, metaphysical realm as Sam and Mary venture into their memories and pave the way for a spiritual purge of sorts. Francesca Balestra Di Mottola’s simple set transforms as Mary and Sam physically step into each other’s memories like a stage play. Florian Kronenberger guides our eye with ghostly lighting, taking us in and out of these impressive moments elevated by Andrew Droz Palermo and Rina Yang, who give us the best cinematography of the year.
The team pulls off a vision that is equally eerie and dazzling. One dream sequence in particular depicts Mother Mary’s visceral relationship with fame and touring and is pulled off without any dialogue. It’s a difficult pill to swallow, coated in the glitz and glitter of the Eras Tour. Sequences like these remind us that Lowery is one of our boldest visionaries behind the camera today. He crafts imagery that tattoos itself on your mind’s eye, that so clearly articulates what he is trying to say. Combined with his seamless editing, it feels like the memories swallow us whole.
Of course, the story of a pop star seeking a dress for her grand return is nothing without the costumes. Bina Daigeler’s costumes are characters all their own as we maneuver through Mother Mary’s past looks. They’re opulent and otherworldly, combining biblical imagery with the pageantry of Lady Gaga. It makes you wish we spent more time with Mother Mary on stage.
Not to say the performance sequences aren’t satisfying (they’re hypnotic). But the popstar crafted for this movie is so distinct in her look and sound (immaculately crafted by Jack Antonoff, Charli XCX, and FKA twigs), you can’t help but want more.
But, as infectious as the music is, that’s not the point of Mother Mary. Lowery could’ve gone an obvious route, but with his subversion of our expectations, we get a movie that’s much richer and deeper. If Lowery is a designer, Mother Mary is a gown composed of textured fabrics and bold colors, simultaneously commending and condemning the pop world that permeates our culture.
On the other hand, Lowery is also an exorcist. In his eyes, persona is protection, but it’s also intoxicating and swallows you whole. The artifice becomes a hollow shell where someone real once was. Mary’s head is not spinning; she’s not crawling on the walls. Her demon is clad in sequins and synths. Nonetheless, Lowery seeks to cast artifice out and bring a tortured soul back into the light.
Review Courtesy of Adam Patla
Feature Image Credit to A24 via The Playlist