Mark Reviews Movies: MADRE

Follow on Facebook | Follow on Twitter | Become a Patron

Review by Mark Dujsik | October 29, 2020

Co-writer/director Rodrigo Sorogoyen's Madre is filled with shocks. There's the opening scene, which presents a parental nightmare in real time. There's the first significant edit, which lulls us into a sense of serenity, before three words shatter the peace. Finally, there's the following story, as well as the filmmaker's approach to it, which is shocking, if only relative to how the film opens. Based on that first scene, we expect some kind of mystery or thriller, but instead, Sorogoyen and fellow screenwriter Isabel Peña offer a tale of deep melancholy and unfulfillable longing.

This story is quiet, tranquil, and methodical, offering unspoken—but patently obvious—motives for a pair of characters who are connected by nothing, save for the desire to connect to each other. They talk, often and a lot, but, when they speak, neither directly says what's in the deepest part of each one's heart. The admission would be too embarrassing for one of them, and it would be too painful for the other.

The wrenching prologue begins on an empty beach somewhere in France, before the scene transitions to an apartment somewhere in Spain. Elena (Marta Nieto) has returned home with her mother (played by Blanca Apilánez), and the two chat about the daughter's dinner plans and her romantic opportunities. The conversation is so ordinary and seems to be establishing one premise, but then, Elena receives a phone call. It's from her 6-year-old son, currently on a trip with the boy's father, who's Elena's ex-husband.

Iván, the son, is somewhere on a beach. His father is nowhere in sight, as he went back to the camper the two were traveling in to retrieve the boy's toys. It has been a while—long enough for Iván to worry. The boy has no idea what beach he's on or even which country it is located.

Sorogoyen presents the scene, as the grandmother takes over the conversation while Elena calls the police and the mother slowly realizes that help isn't coming for her son, in a one-take—the camera following the rush of movement and capturing Elena putting on a brave face, trying to comfort her son as the direness of his situation escalates. The boy eventually spots a man—a stranger—calling for him. There's an unseen chase on the other end of the line, and shortly after, with a few words from an adult and unfamiliar voice, the call ends.

The effect of this scene is potent. It lingers well into the story, which suddenly cuts back to the beach. People linger and play, and words gradually form: "10 years later." It hurts.

Elena now lives here. It's a little town in France, filled with seasonal vacationers and only a few locals. She manages a beachside restaurant, lives alone in an apartment, and has a steady boyfriend named Joseba (Alex Brendemühl), who occasionally spends the night and wants Elena to move in with him somewhere away from this place. We can tell Joseba loves Elena. We can't determine if she is ready to love again.

While walking on the beach, Elena spots a teenage boy named Jean (Jules Porier), whose face, based only on her reaction, looks eerily familiar to her. She can't stop looking. She follows the teen to his home. He notices, and then, Jean can't stop looking at Elena.

This relationship is complicated, to say the least, primarily because neither Elena nor Jean is willing or able to say what they want from it. There's a difficult balancing act that Sorogoyen and these actors must accomplish. We don't hear, until much later (and from someone else), that Jean reminds Elena of her missing son, whose fate is never revealed, but the fact is apparent. We never hear Jean tell Elena, except in an occasional half-joke and in the climactic scene, what he wants from her. From his age and the way his eyes linger upon her, though, we know exactly what the boy wants from this 39-year-old woman.

All of this could be uncomfortable, but there's a firm, unnegotiable line established by the filmmaking and the performances. The boy lusts for the woman. The woman knows this, but she also ensures that nothing will happen. The boy, after all, is the only remnant she has of her missing son—even if she also knows, deep down and less likely to be spoken, that it is all a fantasy formed of pain, uncertainty, and evaded grief.

The scenes between these two characters are like a dance—filled with restrained emotions and a little dangerous. People, especially Joseba and the boy's parents (played by Anne Consigny and Frédéric Pierrot)), start noticing how much time they spend together, although the rumors surrounding Elena's history in town prevent people from assuming the worst—only something potentially damaging in a different way. What might this woman, dubbed a "psycho" by the vacationers and the locals, do in order to reclaim what she lost? Does Jean realize it, or are his feelings for her sincere but naïve?

It's fascinating and painful to watch these scenes, which play out one way for Elena (whose looks and few touches are delicately maternal) and a completely different way for Jean (who flirts in the shy way of a boy whose experience with romance is limited and unsuccessful). The performances from these two actors communicate so much without saying much at all (Sorogoyen's tendency to cut to close-ups of each character's face, in dream-like slow-motion while dialogue plays removed from the shots, highlights the effect). Nieto particularly captures Elena's tenderness and pain, the combination of which defines the entirety of Madre.

Back to Home

Buy Related Products