A collage of religio-goth gestures, Mother Mary never adds up to quite as much as it promises. But the movie has a somnambulant pull, thanks to its woozy imagery and cloistered, two-hander structure, in which Anne Hathaway and Michaela Coel circle each other like figures in a hazy dream.
Hathaway plays pop-music icon Mother Mary, who shows up distraught and in disarray at the estate of her former stylist, Sam Anselm (Coel). Even though they’ve been estranged for many years, she demands that the wary Sam design her costume for an upcoming performance. The nature of their estrangement—indeed, of the relationship itself—is fairly vague, yet this becomes less relevant as their circular conversations about fame and fashion take on increasingly metaphysical qualities. This is enhanced by writer-director David Lowery’s arresting staging and imagery, both of Mother Mary’s ritualistic concert performances and of a shared vision the women have of an undulating red fabric.
My theory about that fabric—considering one of Mary’s songs is titled “Holy Spirit” and there is another sequence involving a possible possession—is that this is supposed to be some sort of unorthodox understanding of the third person of the Trinity, as described in Christian doctrine. Indeed, given the boatload of religious references in the movie (stigmata, halos, an offhanded reference to transubstantiation), you’d need repeat viewings and plenty of footnotes to unpack all the possibilities. Perhaps it’s easier to keep things simple and read the red ghost as a metaphor for the call and cost of creativity. Or, as the final moments seem to suggest, the fabric represents the persistent spiritual connection between the two women—in which case a clearer dramatization of said relationship would have been helpful.
(4/29/2026)
