NIGHTBITCH (USA | 2024 | 98m | Marielle Heller)
In Marielle Heller’s adaptation of Rachel Yoder’s novel Amy Adams is nothing short of phenomenally committed to her portrayal of an artist who set her career aside to raise an adorable child. She sells the madness of postpartum isolation as her free-spirited identity, subsumed by long days spent only with her son, attempts to reclaim itself, clawing to the surface through recurring hallucinations (maybe) that she’s turning into a dog. (Or, according to her kid: “Mommy fuzzy”)
So defined by her maternal responsibilities, Adams’s character doesn’t even have a name. Her husband is played by Scoot McNairy. He turns in similarly sensitive work as the oft-absent father who means well, but is away on business for most of the week, leaving her whole world to errands, childcare, and the persistent fear of interacting with the other moms of Baby Book Club at the public library. Disappearing and reappearing in week-capping Ubers, even when he’s back home he’s entirely unhelpful even when he’s trying to take the load off by “babysitting” his own kid.
Marielle Heller holds such empathy for the lonely messy prison of stay-at-home motherhood that despite its best intentions, the film often gets lost in a torrent of experiments, body horror, flashbacks, & strained metaphors. In aiming to be infinitely relatable, the observational filmmaking style is also often intentionally uncomfortable. We spend long trying stretches of fulfilling-yet-frustrating days at home with only a small preverbal child as a companion. The routine of morning hashbrowns, walks around the neighborhood, and struggles to invent creative interactions for the endless passing hours give creedence to the borderline insanity that takes hold. Adams depicts the desperation of wanting more along with the guilt of doubting that life with her child is enough.
These feelings of desperate reclamation claw to the surface, such that the horrors of Amy Adams’s transformations rival the Substance for eye-averting squirmy gore. Hardly the disaster many suspected from the trailer, yet it also never elevates to the insane promise of its title. It lingers instead trying to do too much — plot lines with the other moms aren’t ever fully developed, a deep dive into her family history never quite fulfills its promise — while not committing quite hard enough. One of those movies that makes the intentionally childless congratulate themselves, or at least breathe a satisfied sigh of relief and give a nod of respect for those who are in the thick of it.
Nightbitch had its world premiere at the 2024 Toronto International Film Festival