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.

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