When it finally hit me what’s really going on in mother!—maybe halfway into its boldly uncomfortable two hours—I kept thinking about the sculptor Constantin Brancusi and his personal dislike of Pablo Picasso.
As related in John Richardson’s book A Life of Picasso, Brancusi observed the way that Picasso used people for his creative process and his “habit of making off not so much with their ideas as with their energy. ‘Picasso is a cannibal,” Brancusi said. He had a point. After a pleasurable day in Picasso’s company, those present were apt to end up suffering from collective nervous exhaustion. Picasso had made off with their energy and would go off to his studio and spend all night living off it.”
I hold this passage close because I’ve known “cannibals” and I think that I’ve probably been one in the past and I try to not do that anymore. After all, “cannibals” are everywhere, not just in the arts. They can be in any job or social circle, any quilting club or classroom or paintball team. A “cannibal” is any person who wants something from you without giving a fuck about you. Their companionship feels empty. They do you favors only because they want one in return. They share knowledge and experience for the ego buzz. The effect of a “cannibal” in your life ranges from mild annoyance akin to a mosquito to the bleakest, howling pain.
One way to get to that darkest of places is when you fall in love with one without realizing it.
And that’s what this movie is about. Every queasy, violent, brutal, gut-churning minute of it.
Javier Bardem is a writer (a poet, apparently, who somehow makes a tidy living off of it!). Jennifer Lawrence is his wife. They live in his beautiful remote country home that recently burned. While he struggles through writer’s block, she painstakingly restores the house, in total Bob Vila, DIY style. She can build a kitchen sink and lay down hardwood flooring. She does it because she loves the work while we’re not sure if Javier can even turn a screw.
Trouble starts when Javier’s fans start showing up at their doorstep, are welcomed inside by him and then proceed to act like complete assholes. In their home. In HER home, belittling her in rooms that she’s in the middle of renovating by herself, judging her on stairsteps that she reinforced and throwing up into toilets that she no doubt installed. People fawn over him, while they treat Jennifer like a barely competent sidekick. The worst part: He doesn’t notice. He enjoys the attention too much. He’s an artist in a dry spell whose self-esteem could use a boost. A perfect “cannibal”.
In time, more and more throngs of admirers arrive, fill the house and thoughtlessly wreck the place in scenes of absurdity on a Luis Bunuel level. When it all leads to horror-style carnage, it works on a whole other dimension than your regular splatter flick because the real terror here is psychological. Writer/director Darren Aronofsky shoots most of the film in close-ups, to powerful effect. It’s all about faces and emotions and thoughts. He gets away with the wild, gory stuff because we’re undecided about whether or not we should take it literally.
This might be the most bizarre movie to hit the multiplexes in 2017. It doesn’t belong there at all. Its real home is the old school arthouse, which sadly doesn’t exist in most places anymore. Let’s not fret about that though, and instead let’s show some appreciation that this weird little beast got made at all.