As I type this now it will be Mothers Day, or maybe it will be the day after Mothers Day. Or maybe it will be a month after Mothers Day, when I finally feel satisfied enough to publish this post. Regardless, I am once again guilty of not getting my mom a gift for this performative holiday; however, the truth is I make myself forget in order to avoid the terrifying question: what gift is worthy of the time and labor my mother spent raising me? A card is never enough, brunch is never enough, even fancy jewelry will never be enough, because someone’s time and energy can be rewarded, but never replaced. We owe our mothers so much and yet we demonstrate our appreciation once a year. If we truly understood the value of our mothers, shouldn’t we be more demanding of better healthcare, paid maternal leave, universal basic income? Programs that could allow women to have time for themselves, instead of taking it away from them before it’s too late. I think we do understand the reality of motherhood, but we dare not speak it lest we reveal our own misogyny. It’s been three years since the release of Hereditary and I am still haunted by Toni Collette’s monologue and clearly I am not the only one. Every so often it pops up on my Twitter timeline and Instagram feed. I’ve seen it parodied and reinterpreted and yet for all of its iterations, nothing can induce anxiety more than the original. It’s a mother of a monologue that cuts deep into the truth about motherhood, which is why it leaves such a bracing impact.
Toni Collette is notorious, not for playing mothers, but for performing the multifacetedness of motherhood. My first introduction to her was The Sixth Sense, as the concerned single mother of Hayley Joel Osment. Her son can see ghosts and he doesn’t understand why they keep asking them for help. She’s left in the dark, emotionally incapable of realizing what’s happening, so for all of the care and concern she can muster, there is still a divide, nonetheless she still tries to connect. It seems futile, until her son finally opens up, and when he does, she closely listens. Again in Little Miss Sunshine, she’s patient, she’s sacrificing, and she’s hopelessly compassionate even when she is tired. This is fully displayed in the beauty pageant scene as she watches in shock as her young daughter dances provocatively to Rick James’ ‘Super Freak,’ only to join her onstage in awkward solidarity. The rest of the family follows soon after. It’s a tender moment, because she recognizes her family for what it is: a group of weirdos and losers; a failure to the American nuclear family. Like a truly unconditionally, loving mother, she accepts them.
With Hereditary, something wholly different is given. Motherhood is still being performed; however, it’s dark, frightening, a more harsher side of maternity. Annie Graham, is an artist and a recluse, she plays the part of a caring mother, but really she’s just going through the motions. Then the unthinkable happens, she tragically loses her youngest child in a horrible accident caused by her eldest. It ignites the events that lead to her demise, although the true point of no return is when she finally lays bare her emotions. The scene is set at the dinner table, a place of family gathering, although the family is reluctant to be there. The tension languishes at the edge of casual conversation that is being attempted. For those of us with dysfunctional families, the experience of a passive aggressive dinner is all too familiar. What happens next is to be expected, but what is said isn’t. It’s from the moment she screams, ‘I am your mother!,’ do I hold my breath in and bury my face in my hands. I have had this moment. I’ve intentionally challenged my mom in defiance, only to have her challenge me right back. It’s a failure of a rebellion, because I know what happens next. It’s the reason why I know I can’t win.
“All I do is worry and slave and defend you and what do I get back? Is that face on your fucking face!” I know from my own past experiences, there is no better counterargument to the list of my mom’s many sacrifices. I know I can never give back her time or relieve her of all worries. An amateur actress could never breathe enraged life to these common phrases shouted by many mothers, let alone someone more experienced. Toni Collette knows how to deliver her lines with an acidic bite. Her face readily changes from enraged, to frustrated, to heartbroken, then back to enraged. It’s a rare multilayered monologue that requires nuanced delivery while still being emotionally charged. Toni Collette balances it all so well, effortlessly riding each emotion to the next. She’s well-versed in playing mothers afterall, yet this isn’t as tender and giving as her previous performances. Instead sympathy is dangled before our eyes, then ripped away. What’s being displayed is a forbidden side of motherhood, the unspoken truth that mothers are selfish too. “I wish I could shield you from the knowledge that you did what you did,” she cries. She knowingly hurts her child by shouting and blaming, even acknowledges how desperately she wishes to have the capability to forgive. However, she can’t through all of her grief and it’s the resolute, ‘I can’t accept and I can’t forgive’ that propels the family to spiral away from one another. It’s a rare moment of a mother explicitly placing herself first before the child. It confirms the fear of admitting our mothers are people too, deserving of having their own frustrations.
Movies for so long have sympathized with fathers, who are frustrated and frightened of parenthood. Why can’t mothers be treated the same? I think it all points back to the fact we demand mothers (and women in an entirety), to endlessly give, even when we know they are tired. Admitting to such an unfair standard would mean having to recognize complicity in denying someone their humanity and no one really wants to put in the emotional and physical labor the same way a mom does. We grant our mothers a day off once a year, yet it will never be enough, because we know we can do better and doing so might mean forfeiting our own time for them. Time we would rather reserve for ourselves.
