Descending fully inside postnatal depression and psychosis, this horror film blends hallucination, premonition, memory and flashback; what it loses in storytelling precision it makes up for in desperate incarceration within one new mother’s headspace.
As soon as she comes home, Meredith (Emily Hampshire) is scrubbing her own birth discharge off the floor. While husband Jared (François Arnaud) is unexpectedly delighted at fatherhood, her new role chafes at an existential level. Son Alex won’t settle in her hands, Jared pushes her to take care of the house while she’s busy expressing milk and, rather than dealing with a burning meal, she smashes her smoke detector. “It’s better to accept you need to try, than be ashamed you need to try,” says Meredith’s therapist of her misfiring maternal affections. But by the time she is seeing visions of cribs overflowing with blood, and of Alex as a young boy, it feels like she needs far more regular sessions.
Mom never overcomes the key stumbling block that hobbles much elevated horror: there is a clear and irrefutable psychological explanation that neuters the film’s paranormal side. But, after a crucial horrifying incident, debut director Adam O’Brien doubles down effectively by dropping us deep into that psyche and pulling up the ladder. Trapped alone in a house shot in pale, Stygian hues, with Meredith also looking increasingly phantom-like, she is left in a miasma of guilt, self-justification and attempts at self-staged redemption via her son’s apparition.
These manifestations aren’t very original, especially the lank-haired, Ringu-esque girl that shadows Alex. And sealing us inside Meredith’s agony leaves the narrative with no particular destination other than general disintegration, as cracks appear in the walls Repulsion-style and water gushes through the floor. If the film is frustratingly nebulous as its layers of reality intermingle, it is a neonatal nightmare that undoubtedly envelops you in its feelbad embrace.
Source: theguardian.com
