I didn’t see all Xavier Dolan‘s Mommy at the Cannes Film Festival (roughly 75 minutes worth) but enough to understand two things. One, it’s a highly original, presumably personal dysfunctional-family-combat movie, primarily distinguished by Anne Dorval‘s performance as the feisty titular character, a woman of unflagging tenacity who’s burdened with a hyper-manic teenage son from hell (Antoine-Olivier Pilon). And two, I had to see the whole thing (114 minutes) sooner or later, even though I didn’t particularly look forward to suffering through Pilon’s bullshit a second time.
Well, I saw all of Mommy last night in Telluride, and I have to be honest and say I think less of the film now. I’m just going to cut to the chase and post a conversation that transpired this morning between myself and a female Mommy admirer.
Me: “Not that great in the end, too long, story doesn’t build to any kind of finality or profound thematic resolution except for the cliche about how we all gave to keep going and have hope blah blah. Mom has hope while the kid makes a break for it inside a mental hospital?”
Her: “It’s not your thing. Still a great flick.”