Night­bitch review – Amy Adams is back

Marielle Heller’s Night­bitch is the kind of sin­cere, mid-bud­get indie that was all the rage in the late ​‘90s and ear­ly ​‘00s. Dur­ing the turn of the cen­tu­ry, films began to decon­struct the tra­di­tion­al roles of the Amer­i­can fam­i­ly that were estab­lished as a lux­u­ry of post-war soci­ety. We all know the image – the father goes to work, the chil­dren go to school, while the moth­er stays at home and tends to the house, cook­ing and clean­ing while always wait­ing for a return. From Pleas­antville to Amer­i­can Beau­ty to more art­house fare like Far From Heav­en and The Hours, cin­e­ma has long scru­ti­nized the role of stay-at-home moth­ers, but no mat­ter how long pop­u­lar cul­ture has been high­light­ing the inten­si­ty and unfair­ness of such gen­dered labor, noth­ing seems to change.

To be a moth­er is to be occu­pied for the rest of your life. Even after the child has phys­i­cal­ly left your body they remain a part of you, and as the moth­er, you more than any­one else, are held respon­si­ble for how that child turns out. Some­times, it can feel like a test you’re fail­ing, as if every time the child leaves your sight there’s a chance for irrev­o­ca­ble dam­age. These fears are explored thor­ough­ly in Night­bitch, a med­i­ta­tion on the nature of moth­er­hood itself.

Night­bitch fol­lows a moth­er (Amy Adams) who feels like she’s lost her­self after leav­ing her job as an artist to be at home full time. Her hus­band (Scoot McNairy) isn’t much help, clue­less­ly stum­bling through the small amount of par­ent­ing he man­ages to con­tribute. When she tells him she’s unhap­py, his response is mad­den­ing: ​“Hap­pi­ness is a choice.” In her mind, she slaps him but she can’t bring her­self to argue with him in real­i­ty. Night­bitch is dri­ven by the mother’s inter­nal mono­logue, which inter­ro­gates the role of moth­er­hood intel­lec­tu­al­ly and philo­soph­i­cal­ly. On the sur­face she’s a sweet, play­ful, end­less­ly patient moth­er. But inside, she’s bub­bling with rage over the mar­gin­al­iza­tion and iso­la­tion of being the sole care­tak­er of her son. Heller skill­ful­ly por­trays the repeat­ed rou­tines of moth­er­hood – break­fast, lunch, din­ner, bath time, bed­time – as both mean­ing­ful and exhaust­ing. And in the midst of par­ent­ing chaos, the moth­er becomes con­vinced she’s turn­ing into a dog.

In the first half of Night­bitch, Heller explores the body hor­ror aspects of the trans­for­ma­tion – fur, extra nip­ples, a tale hid­ing just beneath the skin of the small of her back. The moth­er gains a height­ened sense of smell and crav­ing for meat. Her hus­band doesn’t take it seri­ous­ly but, charm­ing­ly enough, her son responds to her new ani­mal­is­tic per­sona. And that’s when Night­bitch takes a turn towards a more ana­lyt­i­cal approach to the mother’s sit­u­a­tion. She real­izes that to be a moth­er is to be an ani­mal – gov­erned by instinct and the fierce desire to pro­tect her offspring.

Adams is hav­ing a blast as the moth­er, tak­ing cen­ter stage with renewed ener­gy and vig­or. It’s been a while since she’s had this much fun on the big screen, and it’s a relief to see after recent mis­fires. McNairy is in top comedic form as the clue­less hus­band who thinks of rais­ing his own son as babysit­ting; the fact that he’s younger than Adams enhances the dynam­ic, espe­cial­ly when she’s explain­ing to him the com­plex­i­ties of moth­er­hood. As corny as Night­bitch can be, there’s no deny­ing the uni­ver­sal truths behind the nar­ra­tive. Moth­ers still so often deny parts of them­selves in the ser­vice of their chil­dren and hus­bands, but those artis­tic, rebel­lious impuls­es don’t just go away after mar­riage and fam­i­ly. And frankly, they shouldn’t have to – Night­bitch is about a mother’s need to be free.

Lit­tle White Lies is com­mit­ted to cham­pi­oning great movies and the tal­ent­ed peo­ple who make them.

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