Tucia Lyman’s M.O.M. Mothers of Monsters is a study of obsessive surveillance. IT tells the story of a single mother, Abbey (Melinda Page Hamilton), who endlessly collects recordings of her son, Jacob (Bailey Edwards), a troubled teenager with aggressive tendencies and a history of mental health issues. As the hostility between the characters grows, she buys more and more motion-activated cameras to install around their house as well as a monitor that live-streams footage.
We, like Abbey, scrutinize Jacob’s actions as the film sifts through a heap of possible video evidence. Like Searching and Cam, much of it plays out on a computer screen as a mysterious user browses through the various files. Abbey expresses concern that Jacob might perpetuate mass violence, and, since he alternates between fits of destructive anger and belligerent laughter, we realize early on that he’s unpleasant and unpredictable. But at what point will danger become imminent?
Further evidence is provided by home videos that reveal a barrage of sociopathic actions, especially animal torture (implied not shown, so breathe easy) and clips shot by Jacob’s friends that make it obvious he’s a total dick. The unrelenting deluge of these images is hella stressful for already anxious viewers, who will watch mother and son unravel to a point of no return for 90 minutes.
The techniques M.O.M. employs to keep viewers intrigued are remarkably varied. A backstory involving Abbey’s brother directs the attention of viewers to her fraught past. One unsettling scene forces us to question, along with Abbey, whether we’re watching a Skype conversation or a recording disguised as one side of a Skype conversation. A major change in perspective during the third act uncovers new insights into Jacob’s mind and conceals Abbey’s perspective to keep us guessing about her physical and psychological condition.
The movie’s willingness to dig deep into its audiovisual bag of tricks can be shocking, if a little disorienting. The viewer wonders at any given time what the film is really up to. Is the point that history repeats itself? Does manipulatable technology yield manipulatable people? Do worn-out parents produce monsters because of their confrontational strategies?
M.O.M. seems confused about what it’s trying to say. Part of the problem is that our two main characters don’t feel quite substantial enough to prop up the themes and variations here. There’s a void where we would expect to find Abbey’s interior life. What, beyond her son, crosses her mind? Jacob, on the other hand, is a skinny-jeaned bundle of troubled teen clichés. He keeps dead lizards in formaldehyde jars. He buys gun magazines. He plays video games for hours at a time. He hangs up on his grandmother without saying goodbye! It presents Jacob as monstrous in sum, but never locates a specific unsettling image (or a carefully curated range of them) for us to ponder in relation to Jacob’s mental state. If the movie wants us to entertain the possibility that Jacob might not be a monster (and its final moments suggest it does), its efficient deployment of familiar pathological signifiers counters this intention.
Dissatisfied viewers could argue that M.O.M.’s sadistic twists and vengeful antics take it even further from authenticity and human nuance, but Jacob’s torturous treatment of his mother and resulting antics go so far off the rails that some element of realness returns after all. It appears in the uncomfortably passionate performances of the two lead actors, whom the plot arc nudges towards histrionics. Their exaggerated behaviors fit perfectly with the movie’s investment in a clearly broken channel of communication between mother and son: the characters must do something, anything, to keep each other’s attention, to convince each other they can find the right gesture to restore their relationship and heal their respective traumas. We can—and should, really—laugh at the outlandishness of their escape plans (just wait for the coat-hanger mask to end all coat-hanger masks) and spasmodic ragings, but we can also feel the intense pain of a mother and son whose neuroses are tearing them apart.
M.O.M. aims for a seriousness that ends up going awry, but it nevertheless highlights both deliciously flamboyant eccentricity and the aching loneliness at its heart. Its focus on surveillance is crucial, drawing attention to its failure as a structuring device, and on the other hand revealing that structure’s compelling ability to demand a feral expressiveness from performers. Even if these characters don’t quite seem three-dimensional, their emotions are knives of electric light that break free from what is otherwise thematic chaos.
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