QUICK AND DIRTY: LIVE FROM LOCARNO

María is trying to juggle two things at the same time: she’s a parent and an aspiring writer. Committed to both aspects of her personality, the central character is drawn to the television where a harrowing tale about infanticide is taking place. The story, though horrific, intrigues the novice scribe, who spends her free time watching videos of people analysing Alice; the French woman who slaughtered her infants. María’s fantasies spiral further out of control, and she dreams up scenarios where her newborn ends up on the ground, screaming for his life. It becomes harder for the protagonist to separate her art from her real-life, which culminates in a series of hallucinations: imaginary creations serving as fragments of her neurotic psyche.

Adapted from Katixa Agirre’s 2018 book Mothers Don’t, Salve Maria calls to mind the insular detachment of Stephen King thrillers The Shining (Stanley Kubrick, 1980) and Misery (Rob Reiner, 1990). Like King, Salve Maria director/screenwriter Mar Coll shows an understanding to María (played with stoic energy by Laura Weissmahr), and treats the character with tenderness and empathy. The viewer witnesses the constant howling that surrounds María in her apartment, while the father of the child seems to bring little to their relationship other than constant criticism. “You’re not thinking about Eric,” he sneers, clearly oblivious to the hours María has spent to minding their baby.

Clearly, María aspires to be an efficient mother: she attends weekly classes that involve choreography, where parents – predominantly women – dance around the room with their babies. The central lead leaves her son to take an important call, only to find another woman tending to her child in a way she seems unable to do. The pain is clear: this is a person, however much she resents aspects of parenthood, nevertheless loves her child. Which makes her wonder whether the French woman who killed her children felt as deep a love for her twins as María clearly does for her son.

Driven by a sepulchral energy, the film features an impressive ensemble of actors. Every character onscreen is searching for something grander than life. Oriol Pla is a hoot to watch as the jaded, potentially narcissistic father to María’s boy, while Julie Maes brings much needed pathos in her cameo as mother to the celebrity who killed two innocent children. “I don’t feel sorry for my grandchildren,” the woman weeps; “I feel sorry for Alice.” María isn’t the only mother driven to near sociopathic fantasies, as one of her friend speculates on what stops a parent from “dumping” their baby.

Indeed, María uses this fountain of pain in order to drive her creativity. Between scenes, Coll cements the screen with pull quotes from Simone de Beauvoir and Sylvia Plath, as if to suggest there is a paralysis that exists in every woman. Aided by committed performances from Weissmahr and Maes, Coll strikes a chord that veers beyond average horror cinema, posing an exploration on the theory of “Woman as mother”: an aphorism that was supported by the Catholic Church for centuries.

Breast-feeding is painful for María, and as an added wound, her child spits out the milk. In her deepest, darkest moments, the lead character pictures moments of harm and mutilation in the hope of making sense in her cluttered and calamitous existence. The division between fantasy and truth is a trope that drives many horror films – it’s a common fixture in Stephen King’s work – but María’s predicament extends to the kid she gave birth to. Behind every question comes the burning realisation that this parent could alter another’s life irrevocably. In one tear filled monologue, she professes to do “better.” Parents learn with their children, almost as much as the younger ones follow from the examples of their guardians.

Salve Maria is in the Official Competition of the 77th Locarno Film Festival.