Quebecois filmmaker Xavier Dolan is only 25 years old and
now here is his fifth feature, Mommy, arriving
Cannes-anointed as one to watch. He’s a writer-director of obvious raw talents,
experimenting with style and tone to see what works. It’s not refined, and
certainly spills out in unpredictable ways that are equally energizing and
exhausting. But there’s a thrill of seeing developing promise and consistency
of vision. His age and his mixture of seriousness and irreverence toward his
craft tend to sort reactions into extremes, those proclaiming him an
out-of-the-box wunderkind hope-for-cinema, and those
gnashing their teeth over the flash-in-the-pan enfant terrible. He’s neither
yet in my book, but he’s certainly worth keeping an eye on.
After five films in as many years, Dolan’s still a “watch
this space” sort of young filmmaker. His films spring from the same source, a
clear and direct auteurist personality, loaded with dreamy slow-mo, loud pop
songs on the soundtrack, and vivid colors. I was quite taken with his 2011
feature Heartbeats, a small bauble of
a relationship picture borrowing Wong Kar Wai and French New Wave cool. Other
works – a sprawling three-hour transition tale, Laurence Anyways, and a
tiny kitchen-sink melodrama, I Killed My
Mother – are uneven efforts, but interesting for the developments they
represent. His films have a youthful desire to play with his moviemaking
toolbox, to futz with his skills, pressing stories and styles ever so slightly
farther than he’s capable of comfortably taking them. So it is with Mommy, a film that has moments of
brilliance, but is not a brilliant whole.
It is, however, a cohesive vision.
It is a
mother-and-son story, about broken, codependent people living difficult lives
and the small oasis of connection that keeps them afloat. An unemployed single
mother (Anne Dorval) welcomes her emotionally disturbed fifteen-year-old (Antoine-Olivier
Pilon) home after a lengthy stay in a juvenile detention facility. They have a
close relationship, but one fraught with tension. They have tempers. They
smoke, swear, drink, shout, and are generally prone to overreaction. There are
moments of quiet tenderness and familial goofiness, but always cut with
tension. She’s doing the best she can to keep their family together, but with
her son’s wild mood swings, antisocial behavior, and scary intensity, that’s
difficult. At one point, the boy slams his mother against the wall, choking
her. Later, he sings her a song, tenderly kisses her hand. This isn’t healthy
or sustainable.
Dolan shot Mommy
in a boxy 1:1 aspect ratio, a perfect square that’s cramped, far more pinched
than the Academy Ratio of yore. The look pins its characters into colorful
emotional constraints, boxed in by their close and troubled relationships. Dorval
and Pilon have intense interactions held in tight close ups, the frame
frustratingly limited. It’s claustrophobic. In her face we see frustrations in
dealing with such a child, but there’s love in her eyes as she’s determined to
make this new arrangement work. He’s rowdy, unpredictable, an annoying and
trying presence, cajoling, uncouth, and hotheaded. It must be a strong mother’s
love for her to put up with him. Help arrives when a shy, kind, stuttering
neighbor (Suzanne Clément) offers to look after the boy while the mother looks
for work. As a three-sided friendship grows, hope lets a little air into the
picture's stifling emotional terrains.
But uncertainty and strain is never far behind. The film
sprawls out for over two hours, growing repetitive in spots, especially when
plot turns are excruciatingly telegraphed. Past the novelty of the presentation
and commitment of the performers, the film’s structure is amorphous, its themes
confused. There reaches a point where the characters’ behaviors cease to be
interesting and are instead simply wearing. By the end, I wasn’t entirely sure
what we’re supposed to make of them. The meandering plot maintains its
psychologically constricted focus, but drifts away into tropes. At a certain
point I found myself worrying this would be the kind of movie that would stoop
to include a suicide attempt to jolt flagging drama. I was right. Its point of view is imprecise right
when it should be pinning down greater specificity.
But Dolan’s cinematographer (André Turpin) finds moments of
great beauty in the small frame, and the soundtrack is alive with corny/catchy
pop tunes used to great effect. In the film’s best scenes, Dolan is closely
attuned to the performers’ expertly calibrated small shifts in characters’
relationships and attitudes, like an awkward dinner growing into a dance party,
a karaoke night turning emotionally bruising, or a bike ride in which hope for
a better status quo opens up their world to the point that they press against
the very walls of the frame as if widening their horizons. The film is
involving for its flashes of brilliance. Dolan knows how to stage a shot, when
to cut, and when to cue a perfect needle drop to build aesthetically compelling
movie moments. I’m skeptical about some of what he puts that skill to use for
here, but can’t deny its moments of effectiveness. There’s a fuzzy widescreen
daydream late in the picture that’s as moving as anything I’ve seen recently.
And I certainly can’t wait to see what he does next.
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