“Past the social theater that keeps the monologues contained, the text offers its leading lady much to work with, a provision of scenery to chew in constant supply up until the film’s final glimpse of flop sweat and tears.”

All mothers die in childbirth. The person they were before ceases to exist to give way to a new self. Such is the way of change and transformation. They are always a death of sorts, the end of something that makes renewal possible. And what could be more transformative than gestating a life within one’s body, to witness the changes of the flesh and mind, the heart. And then, there’s what comes after. For the unnamed protagonist of Nightbitch, “Mother” becomes her whole identity, a corrosive thing eating away at her from the inside out. After all, Mother’s every waking hour is dedicated to caring for Son, and even her sleep is ruled by his needs. Husband is in the picture but he spends most of the week away at work, condemning his spouse to the quasi-solitary confinement of their All-American domesticity. It’s insidiously commonplace, the kind of dynamic we’ve watched a thousand times on mediocre TV sitcoms. However, Marielle Heller’s fourth narrative feature and Rachel Yoder adaptation has a few tricks up its sleeve. Birth is death and death is transformation, but it need not be a single metamorphosis. In this story, there’s more to come than just one woman’s self-effacement in the face of motherhood.

As the title may imply, there’s a canine edge to Nightbitch’s considerations on being a woman, a mother, a multi-dimensional person consigned to a one-dimensional role. It starts innocently enough, with the sprouting of hair in places where hair didn’t use to be. Soon, new sets of nipples emerge across the torso like oversized lacteal pimples, inklings of a tail force their way out the back while the senses sharpen just as much as the teeth. Most remarkable is Mother’s gradual surrender to animal behaviors, a blossoming bond with three stray dogs eventually exploding into nocturnal killing sprees. Through it all, Heller keeps us inside her protagonist’s head through constant internal monologue, an easy way of transferring literary works to the big screen that works surprisingly well in Nightbitch. Inelegant it may be, but there’s a verve to the delivery, especially when hostility grows out of dissatisfaction, a boiling of inward rage in contrast with the screen’s restrained expression. Sometimes, it even manifests in two takes on the same interaction, one within, the other without. This faint illusion of serenity only makes its falsity more evident, an itch you feel prickle on the skin while sitting in the cinema.

Not that Nightbitch is a film lacking in demonstrative feeling or outlets to its madness. Past the social theater that keeps the monologues contained, the text offers its leading lady much to work with, a provision of scenery to chew in constant supply up until the film’s final glimpse of flop sweat and tears. For her part, Amy Adams is ready to chew her heart out and eager for the risk of ridicule, taking to the picture’s tonal swerves like a fish to water. Her faith in Heller is palpable and the reverse is also true, a lovely feeling when the results merit the confidence. That being said, not even Adams can make the eleventh-hour resolutions work as the script wants them to, slipping a few odd notes here and there, unconvincing in the easiness with which Mother retrieves her joy. The actress is always better in her sneers, the darkness of a hard stare coming from a Disney Princess face, the helplessness cum frustration and all the aches that come with it. One senses that, if pushed, Adams would have gone darker still, perchance benefiting her film. Then again, that push might land the whole thing on the edge of a precipice, ready to fall into the abyss.

It’s mostly a scripting issue, though those comparing Nightbitch to SNL skits and the like are flirting with egregious exaggeration. The pop psychology is pat and the easiness of the post-partum depression allegory can feel insensitive, if not insulting, to those who’ve looked in the condition’s eye and lived to tell the tale. However, Heller is no sketch artist. One of the best places to attest this is the cadre of supporting characters who could so easily fall flat in another writer-director’s hands. The vapid mothers at Baby Book Time are ready-made for a cruel dismissal, but Heller allows them dimensionality. The same could be said for Scoot McNairy’s Husband and Jessica Harper’s librarian. Often, protagonists are painted with a full palette, while supporting players are lucky if they get more than a single brushstroke in solid color. Heller adds one or two complimentary colors to all, a show of generosity that does much to elevate Nightbitch above similar works.

And yet, that Pablum-like quality of the pat third act lingers, a bitter aftertaste that spoils all the deliciousness preceding it. The rarefied air of suburban privilege further undercuts whatever sociopolitical statement on modern mothering and womanhood Nightbitch might want to posit. Heller also never finds a way to cohere the body horror swings with the banality surrounding them. Rather than surreal, it reads like an afterthought. Separating from cinematographer Brandon Trost would probably solve a lot of those issues – it’s no coincidence that Heller’s only narrative feature that was shot by someone other than her go-to DP is also her most sophisticated. Indeed, as far as form is concerned, Nightbitch’s saving grace is Anne McCabe’s editing work. The patterns and arrhythmias do much to involve the spectator in Mother’s slipping sanity. Whether in casual conversation or full-on montage, McCabe’s work posits how time contracts when you have no time to spare, the mental impression of sand flowing erratically through the hourglass rather than its actual movement. As far as filmmaking gestures, it’s easy to overlook but no less elegant, a necessary grace note in a movie that could do with a handful more of those.