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.

By becoming a member you can support our independent journalism and receive exclusive essays, prints, film recommendations and more.

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.

Soaked in sweat and bathed in orange light, Claire Denis’s second English language feature, Stars at Noon, is a film that seems to exist in a state of permanent dusk. Characters are introduced in a relaxed, matter-of-fact manner, with names and occupations intentionally obscured. It doesn’t help that our heroine, Trish, played by Margaret Qualley, is constantly in a rum-induced haze.

Rail thin and running on alcohol and sex, Trish wears the disguise of a good time girl while quietly yearning to be saved from her situation. Stranded in Nicaragua after arriving on assignment as a journalist, Trish has basically given up on writing. All she seems to want to do is get out, with no choice but to bargain with the men around her for protection and survival. It’s a time of governmental and societal unrest in the country and no one seems to care about a wayward American woman in over her head.

Complicating matters is Daniel (Joe Alwyn), a mysterious Englishman in Nicaragua on business. The two meet, flirt, fuck, and then quickly become politically intertwined. The screenplay, written by Denis with Léa Mysius and Andrew Litvack, is deliberately sparse. We don’t know why Trish is stuck, we don’t know why Daniel seems to be a person of interest to the government there and we also don’t know why the two are so drawn to each other.

The novel the film is based on, written by Denis Johnson, originally took place during the Nicaraguan Revolution in 1984. Denis’s film takes place in present day, even acknowledging the COVID-19 pandemic with characters often being masked in public spaces. This is a significant change and yet, much like the book (which doesn’t even name the film’s central pair), the film refuses to directly reveal to the audience what exactly is going on. It’s the kind of story that one can only assess in the macro sense, without getting hung up on every minute detail.

Stars at Noon is most concerned with the movement of the lovers during their time together, with minimal, conversational dialogue in between. It’s unclear whether it’s love, lust, desperation or some combination of these elements that keep Trish and Daniel together. Qualley gives a full-bodied performance, throwing herself into the role of a woman running out of cards to play. Her drunk acting is especially noteworthy, drinking every other character under the table while still maintaining a brave sense of composure.

A coquette with a hard edge, Trish is the kind of character we don’t often see in modern cinema. She’s neither bad nor good: a truly neutral if somewhat chaotic presence. Alwyn is much more remote, going for withholding but often coming off as a blank slate. Still, there’s life in his eyes, and therein lies his charm. But ultimately, Stars at Noon is the story of a woman who doesn’t know where she’s going, and there’s something relatable and melancholic about her journey. Denis always excels at telling stories about complicated, opaque women. There’s beauty in the film’s brevity, but it still leaves you wanting more.

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

By becoming a member you can support our independent journalism and receive exclusive essays, prints, weekly film recommendations and more.

Aubrey Plaza’s career post-Parks and Recreation has been characterized by daring roles, taking big swings in indie fare like Ingrid Goes West, The Little Hours, and last year’s underseen gem Black Bear. In each performance, Plaza lets loose a little more, revealing her staggering emotional range. But this year’s Sundance premiere, John Patton Ford’s tense drama Emily the Criminal, is perhaps Plaza’s best performance to date. With her steely demeanor and large, intense eyes, Plaza is a force to be reckoned with a hidden brutality just waiting to be unleashed.

The film tells the story of Emily (Plaza), an ex-con dealing with crippling student loan debt and no lucrative job prospects. Her gainfully employed best friend (Megalyn Echikunwoke) is hesitant to put a good word in for Emily at her job due to her criminal record. Meanwhile, she’s working a low-pay catering gig as an independent contractor with no benefits or union protection. Though she’s been making it work for as long as she can, Emily knows that if something doesn’t change her life in Los Angeles will be over. Hailing from New Jersey, Emily has no family connections in California and would have to return to the east coast in order to save money and start her life over. Her friend argues against the move, but what does she know? She has a job.

But right when all hope is lost, Emily enters the world of “dummy shopping” where working-class people like her can make money by purchasing big price items with fake credit cards and selling them for a profit under the table. The operation is run by Youcef (Theo Rossi) and Khalil (Jonathan Avigdori), two Lebanese immigrants (and brothers) trying to build a life for themselves and look after their mother. Though hesistant at first, Emily eventually throws herself into her new job, soaking up as much information about the business as she can. She takes to it quickly, using every setback as a learning opportunity. Emily’s transformation from novice to professional criminal is gradual, her ruthlessness creeping into her everyday life.

The brilliance in Emily the Criminal lies in its realism. Ford takes a relatable story–elder millennial grappling with debt, looking for work and trying to sort her personal life out–and uses it to comment on the way society sees people with a criminal record. Due to her past, Emily is treated like a criminal at every job interview, constantly forced to grovel for a living wage. And after years of being sorry, she reaches her breaking point, becoming exactly what they assumed her to be. Though tragic, it makes karmic sense–how is an ex-con supposed to survive in America if they’re stripped of opportunities to live a better life? And is it any more criminal than the nature of capitalism itself? In a world where it’s nearly impossible for the working-class to get by, Emily the Criminal is a small fish in a big pond. She’s not a hero, but she isn’t trying to be. She’s just trying to survive.

Beyond the shallow corporate language of “diversity” and “representation”, there is something much more valuable – cultural understanding. More than simply putting Black and Brown faces in front of the camera, films that demonstrate a real understanding of the culture its portraying have real, lasting value. Adamma Ebo’s Honk for Jesus. Save Your Soul is one of those films, giving a thoughtful glimpse into Southern Baptist culture, zeroing in on the predatory nature of megachurches and the celebrity pastors who drain money from their congregations to fuel their lavish lifestyles.

It’s a very specific story, likely alien to those with no connection to the Southern Evangelical community in America, and Ebo doesn’t go out of her way to spell everything out. Despite premiering at Sundance in front of majority-white (virtual) audiences, Honk for Jesus. Save Your Soul. refuses to spoon-feed its subject matter to the incurious viewer.

Told in both mockumentary and straightforward dramatic style, Ebo’s debut feature chronicles a few days in the life of Pastor Lee-Curtis Childs (Sterling K Brown) and his wife Trinity (Regina Hall) as they plan their comeback in the wake of sexual assault allegations. The allegations are against Lee-Curtis, but most of the work involved in their rebrand falls on Trinity, nicknamed “First Lady”, who bears the brunt of her husband’s reckless and predatory behaviour. Their church, Wander the Greater Paths, is haemorrhaging followers threatening to put an end to Lee-Curtis’s career and the decadent lifestyle he and Trinity share.

From the beginning, it’s clear that Trinity is a woman at the end of her rope dealing with a man unable to see beyond his own needs and desires. She put all of her eggs in one basket, and now they’re rotten and the basket is coming apart. Making matters worse, there’s an up-and-coming church called Heaven’s House run by married pastors Shakura (Nicole Beharie) and Keon Sumpter (Conphidance) that’s been poaching their congregation.

Not only are the Sumpters young and likable they have something their elders do not – a happy marriage. The juxtaposition of the two couples pokes holes in the way our Black elders view what a good Christian relationship looks like. While the Sumpters preach together, sharing the stage equally, Trinity sits behind Lee-Curtis on stage, seen but rarely heard.

As Trinity, Hall is on another level, perfectly embodying the kind of woman who has dedicated her life to looking after a man too selfish and misogynistic to realise how much he needs her. She’s a master of the fake smile, hiding her feelings under an expensive church hat. But despite her marital struggles, Trinity is still complicit, putting her own needs ahead those of her husband’s victims. Brown rises to meet Hall, embodying the self-aggrandising hypermasculine Baptist man.

With his chiseled physique, expensive suits, and seductive Southern drawl, Lee-Curtis peddles patriarchy, capitalism, and homophobia disguised as spiritual guidance. As the story progresses and the mask begins to slip, Brown does incredible work portraying a delusional predator unable to express the slightest bit of remorse for his actions. Despite its subject matter, Honk for Jesus. Save Your Soul refuses to preach to us, instead using comedy as a chisel, slowly chipping away at Evangelical hypocrisy.

Ammonite is not a love story. And yet it has all the trappings of one: romantic beach strolls; longing looks; feverish spontaneous sex; and a quiet atmosphere that really allows you to get to know the characters through their facial expressions.

This is perhaps why the film was immediately compared to the critically-acclaimed French film Portrait of a Lady on Fire. But unlike that film, Ammonite is not a tale of great love. The film, written and directed by Francis Lee, tells the story of real-life paleontologist Mary Anning (Kate Winslet) who came to prominence in the early 1800s for her prehistoric findings. Anning was a scientific pioneer, with intelligence much more advanced than her male peers at the time.

Her quiet life, working and living with her mother (Gemma Jones), is suddenly disrupted by the arrival of geologist Roderick Murchison (James McArdle) and his troubled young wife Charlotte (Saoirse Ronan). What begins as a simple apprenticeship quickly morphs into something more complex when Roderick abruptly departs and leaves Charlotte behind. While Mary is initially resistant to Charlotte, their relationship eventually becomes sexual and they begin an affair.

Their bond is built on mutual loneliness. Mary’s work and living situation keep her far from others while Charlotte’s general air of melancholy and an inattentive husband leaves her frustrated and isolated. Together, they are a mismatched couple, whose emotional alignment is heightened by the gulf of experience and emotional maturity between the two.

Winslet plays Mary with all the seriousness and precision of a no-nonsense professional. She rarely smiles during the film, keeping her brows down and her eyes focused on the seaside where she procures her artifacts. She has little care for her physical appearance or being traditionally ladylike. This is illustrated by a scene where she casually urinates on the beach near the rocks before quickly returning to her work.

Ronan takes on the more traditionally feminine role, with all the adoring looks and romantic overtures that come with it. But Mary’s first love is her work, and eventually, that creates a wedge between the two. There are hints that Mary’s emotional coldness is due in part to a failed relationship with an older woman (Fiona Shaw), but the film does not delve deeply into that part of the story.

Lee, best-known for his debut feature God’s Own Country, is not interested in romance in the traditional sense. This film focuses more on the atmospheric parts of real-life: cleaning; putting on and removing clothes; the crash of the waves onto the shore; eating meals; and the long silences between speech. Ammonite emphasises the sounds of life: the dragging of feet and fabric across the floor; the tightening laces of a corset; the clank of silverware during meals.

These small things seem to provide the most comfort to Mary, more than passion or sex. In Ammonite, Lee shows us the world from Mary’s point of view. Charlotte is the disturbing force in her quiet life, pushing her to choose between her independence and her work. But from the first moments of the film, it’s clear what she will choose.