David Lowery has built a career moving between genres without settling into any one of them. From the quiet, reflective A Ghost Story to the gentle crime story The Old Man & the Gun and the studio-made Peter Pan & Wendy, his films tend to feel less like tightly plotted narratives and more like moods you drift through. His latest, Mother Mary, follows that same path, though this time, his usual restraint doesn’t always work in its favour.
The film is a psychological two-hander set against the world of pop stardom. Anne Hathaway plays Mother Mary, a globally renown but deeply troubled pop star who reconnects with her former best friend, fashion designer Sam Anselm (Michaela Coel). Mary is chasing a comeback and believes the right costume will redefine her image, and Sam is the only person she trusts to create it. What follows isn’t so much a reunion as a slow, emotionally charged confrontation between two people with a complicated past.
Lowery opens up this tight two-hander with stylised musical moments and dreamlike sequences. Supporting roles from Hunter Schafer and FKA Twigs add texture to Mary’s carefully controlled world, though the focus rarely shifts far from the central pair. Schafer brings a quiet, watchful presence, while Twigs feels especially at home in the film’s more physical, abstract scenes.
The film is full of ideas — maybe too many. It treats fame like a kind of modern worship, often framing Mary almost like a religious figure. The imagery is striking, even if it sometimes feels overwrought. It also digs into how performance shapes identity. Mary doesn’t just play a role — she’s completely defined by it, to the point where it’s hard to tell where the real person ends and the persona begins.
Lowery’s film works best as a story about ambition and friendship. Coel gives the most grounded performance, capturing Sam’s hurt and restraint with real precision — she often says more in silence than the script does in dialogue. Hathaway is more uneven. She’s physically committed and at times captivating, but her soft, broken delivery can feel studied rather than revealing.
There’s also a darker thread running through the film. In one standout dance scene, Mary’s performance becomes intense and almost unsettling — as if the line between persona and person is dissolving entirely. It’s one of the moments where the film feels most alive, leaning into something more instinctive and unpredictable.
But this is also where things start to slip. The first half — contained, dialogue-driven, and focused on the two leads — is gripping. As the film pushes further into surreal, more overtly supernatural territory, it becomes less sure of itself. The shift feels abrupt, like the film is reaching for something it hasn’t fully earned.
For a story about global fame, Mother Mary also feels surprisingly closed-off. Everything is filtered through Mary’s perspective, and the outside world barely registers. That may be intentional, but it limits the film’s emotional reach.
Mother Mary is an interesting but uneven film. It has flashes of something genuinely powerful — especially when Coel is on screen or when the film leans into its more physical, expressive side — but it doesn’t fully come together. Its ideas are strong, but they stretch beyond what the story can hold.
