Discover a unique perspective on the critical procedure. Amidst my barely decipherable jottings, penned poorly lit surroundings, I stumble upon the mystifying phrase: “Is this terrible? Perhaps it’s actually excellent”. Look at it this way. If the very same actors, outfitted in the same (impressive) wardrobe, lent their talents to a screenplay directed by Todd Haynes, with identical camera configurations, Mothers’ Instinct may have turned out a foolproof marvel. If an accomplished director from the post-classical era of the 1970s in America was credited, there’s a possibility that this exact cinema – the one being projected – could have found itself on the top 10 list of Cahiers du Cinema for the year.
Unfortunately, neither of these scenarios came to fruition. Possibly, the (presumably they’d opt for this adjective) psychological suspense film is oblivious to how overly it dialogues with cliches from America in the pre-Kennedy era. It maybe doesn’t understand that Jessica Chastain – she and Anne Hathaway merit roads named in their honour for their performances in this film – smokes in a manner that reveals her awareness of her own actions: initiating and drawing with the same intensity she’d apply to hollow out a large pit.
Can the producers genuinely have faith in these outfits? Brace yourself for the soft blue flowered one-piece sported by Chastain during her covert search of her neighbour’s basement. While grieving, Hathaway’s resemblance to Jackie Kennedy doesn’t seem to be confined to an acknowledgement of the famous late first lady’s despair. Hathaway appears to take on the role of the late president’s widow herself. The veil. The gloves. Everything is tremendous. Everything is preposterous. But nothing appears to be intentionally absurd. There’s a chance the film is simply poor.
Adapted from a 2018 French film, which in turn was based on Barbara Abel’s novel, Mothers’ Instinct focusses on the strained dynamics between two stylish homemakers in the American suburbs of the 1960s. This is a time period that popular culture became besotted with around 15 years ago when shows like Mad Men and Revolutionary Road reminded us that the “Sixties” didn’t actually commence until halfway through the decade. A time when men donned slender-lapelled suits and women got dressed for school trips in the manner that they would for weddings today. A time when the white, upper-middle class America was at its highest level of self-satisfaction.
Chastain, an ex-reporter battling frustration, is seen bickering over a child having a potentially dangerous nut allergy, reminiscent of the famous Chekhovian gun hanging over the fireplace. Conversely, Hathaway seems jittery yet satisfied, raising a son who took time to come and who she realises will be her only child due to gynaecological complications. It isn’t a spoiler to reveal that the initial segments pulse with dread – an unfortunate incident takes place early on, leading to intense confrontation between the two women. An outright squabble involving frying pans being hit against costly ageless waves may take some time, but the subtle build-up is adequate to keep things rolling.
It’s evident to perceive that Benoît Delhomme, as a Frenchman, is an ardent follower of the Hitchcock school of thought, with all the surface-level elements present. Chastain, albeit being the only blonde here, along with Hathaway, appears as if they’re decked up for a mystifying banter with Cary Grant or James Stewart. Delhomme, however, handles direction for the first time after an illustrious 30-year career as a sought-after cinematographer, finds himself burdened with a screenplay that does not tactfully handle the strategic placing of its decoy. The middle portion of the story hints at a bold storyline from cinema’s golden times, but a subsequent tweak pulls it back to a rather mundane conclusion.
It cannot be disputed that ‘Mothers’ Instinct’ primarily revolves around an opulent portrayal of an era – and mindsets – that have now become challenging to articulate without explicit indication marks. The storyline is rubbish. The awkwardness is tangible as none of the actors seem comfortable with even the slightest hint of levity. The costuming is so exaggerated that it virtually begs for a song and dance to complement. Despite all this, it becomes difficult to look away. But is it good? Likely not. Terrible? Perhaps not that far either. Let’s do away with star ratings.