mother! (2017)
it is impossible to write about mother! without writing about myself.
and it is impossible to be objective, which in most cases as a movie lover is a given, but in this case it is *I feel* a necessary caveat. and: I can’t separate this film from my experience of it. so I will tell you my experience.
as steve texted in our conversation following my viewing, all of aronofsky’s work is pretty spiritual. to watch mother! outside of that lens is — in my opinion — a complete waste. I’d rather you not see it at all than remove that framework (though in a very real sense, I’m just reiterating a portion of another metaphor he drops halfway through … but I digress). walking out of the theater like the people sitting behind me & saying this movie’s about an abusive relationship or it’s about having kids or the intrusive callousness of other people or being famous or gee, isn’t jennifer lawrence so hot…
ugh. unbearable. don’t be like them. you’re wiser.
mother! is a deeply spiritual film that brings along with it a deeply spiritual experience, but it’s tempting to get sidetracked. yes, it’s violent, often absurdly, uncomfortably so. yes, it’s disturbing, hijacking, offensive, intense, indulgent, etc., etc., etc., etc. it’s not for the faint of heart, it’s not going to apologize or cater, and you cannot leave lukewarm. but if you’re open to what I feel aronofsky’s offering, I guarantee it will move you. and like with every meaningful thing in life, the truth is there right in front of you, but you still have to see.
I wept in the theater tonight. wept. something changed within me. shifted. and what came to mind is what I will leave with you here, written by CS Lewis ages ago. although I don’t believe this was darren aronofsky’s bottom-line, punch-you-in-the-face, ignore-at-your-own-peril conclusion, it’s mine.
We are, not metaphorically but in very truth, a Divine work of art, something that God is making, and therefore something with which He will not be satisfied until it has a certain character. Here again we come up against what I have called the ‘intolerable compliment.’ Over a sketch made idly to amuse a child, an artist may not take much trouble: he may be content to let it go even though it is not exactly as he meant it to be. But over the great picture of his life — the work which he loves, though in a different fashion, as intensely as a man loves a woman or a mother a child — he will take endless trouble — and would doubtless, thereby give endless trouble to the picture if it were sentient. One can imagine a sentient picture, after being rubbed and scraped and re-commenced for the tenth time, wishing that it were only a thumb-nail sketch whose making was over in a minute. In the same way, it is natural for us to wish that God had designed for us a less glorious and less arduous destiny; but then we are wishing not for more love but for less.
