Anne Hathaway plays Mary, a superstar singer with an adoring fan base, a la Lady Gaga or Taylor Swift, and a penchant for staging extravagant, melodramatic shows. Her costumes are mostly tiny dresses or bodysuits that show off her magnificent stems; her eyeshadow is as shiny as metallic car paint, and her hair, ironed as straight as Cher’s circa 1971, is always topped by some sort of spiked halo. She’s a mishmash of the sacred and the profane—the songs she performs in the movie’s brief concert segments were written by the likes of Charli XCX, Jack Antonoff, and FKA Twigs, the latter of whom also has a role in the film as a sort of hippie-girl mystic. But as Mary rounds the bend toward the start of a new tour, perhaps her final one, something isn’t right. She’s cracking up, and it occurs to her that a new dress—one that captures her truest self—is the only solution.
All of that may make Mother Mary sound more intriguing than it is. Nearly all the action in the film, save for a few brief, cleverly staged concert sequences and a flashback or two, takes place in that cavernous atelier, as Mary and Sam spar and pick at one another. Sam, as Coel plays her, is cool and serene, but she’s angry, too, making no bones about it. Hathaway’s Mary is messy, fragile, aquiver with nerves, the exact opposite of Mother Mary’s stage persona. Still, she’s presumptuous—she’s shown up on a Thursday, and she needs her very special dress by Sunday. Sam is having none of it, at first, but somehow she’s seduced into complying. As she takes her old friend’s measurements, she makes note of a vertical scar stretching the length of Mary’s back (you can bet we’ll hear the story of that) and remarks on how much weight she’s lost. “You’ve gotten so tiny,” she purrs. “The tiniest intruder.” At this point, you might still be wondering about the psychosexual bond between these two: what exactly happened, and what yanked them apart? But before long, you may be too bored to care. There’s some occasional piercing of the skin with this or that sharp implement, to remind us that we’re watching a horror movie, but it’s never enough to jiggle the movie to life.
Lowery has made some very modest but effective movies (A Ghost Story, The Old Man and the Gun), and some heavily embroidered ones (like The Green Knight, a late-14th century fairytale extravaganza). But Mother Mary, arty and self-conscious, is just a slog. It works hard to impress us with its slinky weirdness, which isn’t the same as simply being weird. Sometimes a dress is just a dress, no matter how hard a filmmaker tries to write it into being.
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