When Martha Stewart eventually passes away, she should order that director R.J. Cutler also be buried along with her inside her death pyramid. With the new Netflix documentary, Martha, he has constructed the greatest possible tribute one could want for a figure as godlike as Stewart — a warts-and-all portrait of the lifestyle mogul that somehow still manages to be a hagiography. Although she clearly cooperated with the production, Stewart has reportedly criticized Cutler’s finished film, which is understandable. In Martha, she comes off as combative, egomaniacal, impatient, uncaring, and at times delusional, as well as a wronged visionary who has reemerged on top. And not just merely “on top”: As someone says early in the film, Martha Stewart essentially created the world we’re currently living in — a world of influencers and borrowed lifestyles and perfect surfaces, all while deep beneath us roll the storms of chaos. Is Martha a good movie? I’m not sure. But it might be an essential one. Anyway, into the pyramid you go, R.J. Cutler.
Formally, the film is no great shakes. It’s an amiably edited journey through Stewart’s life and career with plenty of archival footage, synopsizing her early years in Nutley, New Jersey, with an abusive, embittered father who made the family raise their own vegetables; her young marriage to law student and future publishing-house chief Andy Stewart; the couple’s move to a Westport, Connecticut, fixer-upper that she transformed into a tony manse; and the discovery of her catering and entertaining talents after her lavish dinner parties. Like so many streaming-era documentaries, the picture effectively opens with a trailer for itself, briefly previewing its main points before settling into a by-now familiar cadence of bland insights, light historical context, and obvious music cues. (When young Martha Kostyra takes up modeling, we hear Etta James sing “Good Lookin’” on the soundtrack. When she becomes a stockbroker, we hear Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’.” When her career as a lifestyle guru takes off, we hear the synth beats of Depeche Mode’s “Just Can’t Get Enough.”)
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What makes Martha fascinating is the now-83-year-old Stewart herself, who presides over the film with a contemporary onscreen interview. (Other interviewees — including family members, friends, employees, and inmates she did time with at Alderson Federal Prison — remain offscreen as they attest, choruslike, to her gumption, her drive, and, occasionally, her goodness.) She makes a hard-nosed guide to her own life, pushing back when Cutler presses her on tougher topics. When Stewart talks angrily about how Andy cheated on her, Cutler notes that she also cheated on him. Her answer? “Yeah, but Andy never knew about that.” When Cutler replies that Andy did in fact know, Martha dismisses her own affairs as minor dalliances. This sort of back-and-forth actually helps humanize Stewart, however much she may hate it in retrospect. And it lifts Martha the movie up from just another bit of swoony celebrity blather to something more interesting.
Stewart’s surface perfection powered her business. She created beautiful spaces with beautiful things and cooked beautiful dishes, all while still looking beautiful. As the film makes clear, she connected with a generation of women who had been raised by working mothers; many of them didn’t get homemaking knowledge or recipes passed down. Stewart filled that gap, and she did so without requiring any kind of emotional reciprocity. She was there, smiling and infallible, the MacGyver of good housekeeping, ready to turn a used glass jug and some tissues into an elegant centerpiece at the drop of a hat. An incredible amount of initiative and energy went into all this, but she made it look so effortless partly because she had taste.
When Stewart did fall from grace, however, the celebrity culture that had embraced and lionized her bit back. She had always seemed so unfazed by everything, so the world now delighted in seeing her brought down several pegs. The infamous insider-trading scandal that landed her in prison is still a raw subject; Stewart and others involved continue to claim she did nothing illegal, and that she became a target because then-U.S. attorney for the Southern District of New York James Comey wanted to make a name for himself by bagging a celebrity. Stewart was also genuinely changed by prison and made friendships there among the women incarcerated alongside her. Once her mask of perfection fell, she seemed to open herself up more to the world.
All this would make an ideal rise-fall-rise narrative for a standard documentary, and you can imagine what the pitch memo for this might have looked like: Watch Martha Stewart achieve success, then watch the world unfairly humiliate her, then watch her claw her way back to fame and relevance. And maybe Martha still thinks it is that kind of movie. But Cutler’s onscreen interactions with Stewart, as well as occasional forays into the way she treats the people around her, turn the picture into something a lot slippier and the subject into someone more captivating. While most films would crystallize their theses as they near their end, Martha invites ambiguity and uncertainty. The more we see of Stewart, the more we feel for her — and the less we understand her. She cannot be summarized. And as much as Martha might try, in its failure to do so lies its unlikely power.
‘Body horror’ may not be the most accurate descriptor to qualify Marielle Heller’s Nightbitch, but the movie undoubtedly adopts many tropes when it focuses on Mother’s (Amy Adams) transformation from a human to a dog. Indeed, when a cyst appears on her back and reveals a large tail full of pus, one may be inclined to say that this dark comedy veers into such territory, and rightfully so.
The ‘body horror’ itself is appropriately gross and immediately destabilizes both the audience and the protagonist, who discovers a side of her she didn’t realize she had until now. ‘Mother’ (both parent and kid characters are unnamed because it could be you, me, or anyone else) has been living absolute hell parenting her Son (played with an impeccable sense of comedic timing by twins Arleigh and Emmett Snowden). Like any mom at this stage in her life, she attempts to set unattainable goals for her child to be tended to, whether going to the library for a torturous ‘Book Babies’ session or taking her son to the park with almost certain death waiting for him if she doesn’t always pay close attention to what he is doing.
Of course, it doesn’t help that her son is ineffably cute but incredibly chaotic (the innocent charm they have at this time is deadly for many parents who want to teach them the right way to do things patiently but are unable to do it because of how cute their child looks at all times). From saying the F-word in public to purposefully breaking dishes and then crying about it, he’s certainly not helping her mother have an easygoing time with him, as lovable as he may be. However, Mother’s life isn’t going the way she wants to. She is forced to do everything for her son and absent Husband (Scoot McNairy), which leads her to sacrifice the promising career she had in art to be a stay-at-home mom. At that moment, her sense of smell begins to develop, and she starts experiencing profound physical changes in her body that lead her to believe she is slowly transforming into a dog.
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In its opening scene, Heller, cinematographer Brandon Trost, and editor Anne McCabe intelligently represent Mother’s chaotic, overwhelming life through aesthetic choices reminiscent of Monia Chokri’s Babysitter. Extreme close-ups of Mother’s routine acts (putting butter in the pan and frying hash browns while attempting to subdue her son’s deafening cries), quickly edited together, pervert what the idealized ‘joys’ of being a mother are. In this case, Son acts more like a burden than the boy she unconditionally loves. Heller then directs her audience to Mother’s ragged hair, tired eyes, and wrinkles on her face that seem more apparent than they should, not because of her age but due to her constant sleeplessness and heightened stress levels.
This immediately pulls us into the on-screen adaptation of Rachel Yoder’s book of the same name, to which Heller then takes an immediate dark turn (a bold swing for some who may not know what this film is about). The attentive filmmaker she has always been (see her masterpiece, A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood), Heller still ensures there’s a profound bond between Mother and Son, either through fleeting moments of love as she reads him a bedtime story or as they hold their hands together while running after dogs in a park.
There’s a sweetness buried inside their relationship that has unfortunately been lost when Mother has been tasked to do everything to please him and her neglectful husband, who would rather fly away from familial problems than face them head-on. In fact, in one of the film’s most powerful scenes, Husband asks Mother, “What happened to my wife?” as he wonders how she became so depressed, bitter, and angry at herself, the world, and her husband. She bluntly responds: “She died in childbirth.”
This seems to be Nightbitch’s central thesis, illustrated by an unexpected transformation into a fierce canine, which helps her reclaim the story she wants to make for herself. The metaphor is apt and sounds rich enough to be pushed to its fullest extent. But just as it’s about to go all in on its kooky, almost otherworldly storytelling, Heller decides to stop the movie dead in its tracks and not develop any of its ideas, nor the characters who seem rife with potential. For no reason whatsoever, the editorial (and thematic) choices begin to squander any attempt at fleshing anything out of its characters and central story.
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The end result seems more confounding than anything else because it feels like the movie is trying to do far too much in such a short time (98 minutes). As it moves away from the thrilling, almost unique body horror, Heller also loses her aesthetic impulses that made the movie’s first half so compelling and often funny to watch.
The original source material may be too ambitious to transpose on screen. However, when so much of the movie does work in its opening section, it seems baffling that Nightbitch would lose its most interesting parts in favor of absolute nothingness. But it also seems afraid to commit to one genre or a thematic throughline,to keep us invested. Had it fully leaned into body horror, it could’ve gone in a completely different direction than its massively unconfident script allows.
Thankfully, Adams always seems to give a damn and represents Mother’s psychological torment intelligently with enough empathy and compassion for the audience to attach themselves to her plight. Her most nail-biting line deliveries are expressed with the energy of a thousand flames (and how her eyes shift in key scenes exacerbates this feeling), alongside voiceover narration that solidifies all of the emotions she can’t express physically. But she’s also frequently outshined by the Snowden twins, who literally steal the spotlight from her and run away with it.
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They have no shame in doing so, either, with note-perfect comedic timing that balances out their charming, lovable exterior. The cutest kids are usually the most troublesome. Heller understands this inextricable fact and displays it to us for all the world to see. However, she shows an insatiable chemistry between the two that makes it instantly believable that Mother will do anything for her Son, even if it mentally and physically exhausts her.
All of this is finely presented and depicted with thunderous energy during Nightbitch’s opening half. It’s why it feels so disappointing that Heller never fully commits to either her premise or the themes she lays out, concluding Nightbitch with an admittedly funny coda to an otherwise middling and disappointing affair. It may not be as bad as Heller’s feature directorial debut, but it certainly won’t be remembered as her finest effort, either, especially coming off the heels of her best-ever film.
Nightbitch releases exclusively in theatres on December 6.
About Post Author
Maxance Vincent
Maxance Vincent is a freelance film and TV critic, and a recent graduate of a BFA in Film Studies at the Université de Montréal, with a specialization in Video Game Studies. He is now currently enrolled in a graduate diploma in Journalism.
Tamil Film Active Producers Association (TFAPA) filed a writ petition in Madras High Court seeking a ban on movie reviews for three days from release on social media platforms such as YouTube, Facebook, Instagram and X. According to The Hindu, the film body sought direction from the Centre and State government. The case will be heard on Tuesday, December 3.
The film body requested the Centre and State government to come up with guidelines to be followed by online film critics while reviewing movies on their YouTube Channels, X, Facebook and other social media platforms.
On November 20, another association, Tamil Nadu Producers Council (TNPC) issued a statement asking theatre owners to ban YouTube channels from recording video reviews and opinions inside the theatre premises after the film screenings.
After the issuance of the statement, some of the theatres stopped allowing YouTube channels from entering the theatre premises.
The TNPC’s statement mentioned that the reviewers should stop personal attacks and ‘incitement of hatred under the guise of film reviews’. They mentioned such reviews affected Indian 2, Vettaiyan and Kanguva.
The statements from Tamil Film Active Producers Association (TFAPA) and Tamil Nadu Film Producers Council (TNPC) indicate that Suriya’s Kanguva is the latest film that was affected by harsh reviews that personally attacked the makers and actor.
1 of 5 | Lily-Rose Depp falls under the spell of “Nosferatu.” Photo courtesy of Focus Features LLC
LOS ANGELES, Dec. 2 (UPI) — The 1922 silent film Nosferatu was an unauthorized adaptation of Dracula. Robert Eggers’ Nosferatu, in theaters Dec. 25, showcases the blatant similarities in a gritty period piece, while crediting both the silent film and Bram Stoker this time.
Thomas Hutter (Nicholas Hoult) visits Count Orlock (Bill Skarsgard) to sign paperwork for a house in Germany. Orlock keeps Thomas prisoner while conspiring to seduce Thomas’ wife, Ellen (Lily-Rose Depp).
Orlock even takes a boat to Germany and crashes it onto the shore, like the Demeter. The Hutters’ friends, Friedrich (Aaron Taylor-Johnson) and Anna Harding (Emma Corrin), consult Professor Von Franz (Willem Dafoe) for his expertise in dealing with cases like Orlock’s.
There has never been an adaptation of Nosferatu or Dracula in Eggers’ gritty period style, so that is the justification for this incarnation. Even Francis Ford Coppola’s 1992 Dracula was glamorized and stylized.
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So, the world of 1838 Germany is as authentic as Eggers ‘colonial horror, The Vvitch, his 19th-century American drama, The Lighthouse, or Norse era The Northman. Eggers builds atmosphere with Thomas’ gradual approach to Orlock in evocative settings like woodsy crossroads and a snowy courtyard.
The language is just period enough to sound historic, but not so dense that it’s challenging to understand. Prof. Von Franz says, “I have hither come to help you” and “I entreat you to excuse me,” and the words “hither” and “entreat” sound historical.
Orlock still has sharp features, but is not a caricature like the silent film. He is animalistic, but does not do an exaggerated silent movie walk.
This vampire bites his victims in the chest, not the neck, which is an arbitrary difference. He is not seductive like Stoker’s Count, rather aggressively taunting Ellen that she will be his eventually.
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Depp is tasked with a physical performance like a character in an Exorcist movie with convulsions that must be hard on the body once, let alone in multiple takes. Eggers also accurately conveys nightmare logic with sudden changes in characters’ perceptions.
This Nosferatu is sexual, which certainly wasn’t allowed in the silent era, but nightmare visions still interrupt the act. This is not romantic; it is 100% horror.
Nosferatu does have an ending different from Dracula, so some twists occur to surprise scholars of the source material. Ultimately, the film delivers a period-authentic vampire tale faithful to both sources.
Fred Topel, who attended film school at Ithaca College, is a UPI entertainment writer based in Los Angeles. He has been a professional film critic since 1999, a Rotten Tomatoes critic since 2001, and a member of the Television Critics Association since 2012 and the Critics Choice Association since 2023. Read more of his work in Entertainment.