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A pregnant photographer (Selma Blair) captures motherhood on film while re-examining her relationship with her estranged mom.
PG-13 (Some Mature Thematic Elements|Brief Drug Use)
TV4 Entertainment, Siempre Viva Productions, Aloe Entertainment, Future Proof Films
Mothers and Daughters has so many clichés about the meaning of femininity that it's hard to keep track.
August 2, 2016 | Rating: 1.5/5 | Full Review…
The big problem is twofold: there are too many characters to keep up with, played by too many women who look too much alike.
First-time feature director Paul Duddridge seems determined to keep things superficial, while Paige Cameron's uninspired dialogue hardly helps.
May 6, 2016 | Rating: 1/4 | Full Review…
May 6, 2016 | Rating: D | Full Review…
Some understated and affecting moments
May 5, 2016 | Rating: B | Full Review…
"Mothers and Daughters" is full of recognizable stars and heartfelt conversations. Unfortunately, it's largely devoid of the kind of character development that can give such conversations real impact.
It's a nice film, but most likely not to be remembered after it's opening day.
There's no chance of genuine emotional investment in these characters amid the aggressively heavy-handed contrivances, trite platitudes and eye-rolling conflict resolutions.
Just in time for Mother's Day, a film you should take Mom to...if you hate her.
Some drinking, drugs in overwrought all-star drama.
May 6, 2016 | Rating: 2/5 | Full Review…
It's like somebody has some kind of personal vendetta against Moms with all the crappy movies being made about them.
May 5, 2016 | Rating: 2/5 | Full Review…
A lightly entertaining portrait of different types of mother-daughter relationships.
May 5, 2016 | Rating: 3/5 | Full Review…
Mothers and Daughters has so many clichés about the meaning of femininity that it's hard to keep track.
August 2, 2016 | Rating: 1.5/5 | Full Review…
The big problem is twofold: there are too many characters to keep up with, played by too many women who look too much alike.
First-time feature director Paul Duddridge seems determined to keep things superficial, while Paige Cameron's uninspired dialogue hardly helps.
May 6, 2016 | Rating: 1/4 | Full Review…
May 6, 2016 | Rating: D | Full Review…
It's a nice film, but most likely not to be remembered after it's opening day.
There's no chance of genuine emotional investment in these characters amid the aggressively heavy-handed contrivances, trite platitudes and eye-rolling conflict resolutions.
Just in time for Mother's Day, a film you should take Mom to...if you hate her.
Some drinking, drugs in overwrought all-star drama.
May 6, 2016 | Rating: 2/5 | Full Review…
It's like somebody has some kind of personal vendetta against Moms with all the crappy movies being made about them.
May 5, 2016 | Rating: 2/5 | Full Review…
A lightly entertaining portrait of different types of mother-daughter relationships.
May 5, 2016 | Rating: 3/5 | Full Review…
While Mothers and Daughters is not a great movie by any measure, for an ensemble feature tied to Mother's Day, it certainly could have been a lot worse.
May 5, 2016 | Rating: 3/5 | Full Review…
Director Paul Duddridge gives us just glimpses of these stories, and the narratives either resolve too easily or peter out. A peripheral piece about a pop star and his mother comes out of nowhere.
May 4, 2016 | Rating: 2/5 | Full Review…
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My mother is standing on the porch in the Adirondacks, her back to the lake.
The family place here is an old-fashioned camp, which my father’s father and a group of his friends purchased for hunting and fishing in 1923. There are several cabins, a big kitchen building, and a living-room building with this porch outside it. Below that are a boathouse and docks that give onto a lake encircled by small mountains named for minerals—Copper, Silver, Iron. The other families are long gone now; for us it’s a summer vacation place where we share and divide the time with cousins.
My father came here every summer of his life, and my mother, every summer of their marriage. It was the place where we marked the progress of our childhoods—where we swam and rowed, learned Liar’s Dice and Scrabble, climbed mountains and played prisoner’s base. Other than playing tennis on the dilapidated court, my mother didn’t like being there much—too isolated; she looked awkward on hikes, but right at home lying on this porch reading. Once in a while though, she’d initiate “a new phase”—as when she conspired with my most mechanically minded cousin to purchase a motor boat (long forbidden by Gramps, now dead). The purpose was not to replace the old guide boats and canoes, but to institute water-skiing: Really, what’s the point of the lake? She took up waterskiing with a competitor’s panache, skimming the sparkling surface, one of my brothers steering the boat in fast, wide loops until she wiped out amid cheers to begin again.
Just now, with a friend, I’m setting up writing space in the dining room. We push the long table to make room, and as I turn, I feel my mother so powerfully I say, “My God, she’s actually here.” It’s the end of August 1969, and I am walking toward her, along the boardwalk. The day is cloudy and she’s wearing long pants and a crookedly buttoned cardigan. In my memory, what was meant to be a small goodbye before I left the camp became momentous; at the time, I was simply leaving in half an hour for my new life. I think we must have talked a bit before she said it.
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“I’m having some problems with my marriage.”
I’m sure she thought she was confiding; I’m sure she needed to tell someone. I know now that for her to admit such a thing to anyone was brand new—part of what she was talking about when she told the oral historian she wanted to be more honest. But as with many revolutionary acts, there were unforeseen consequences.
I am having some problems with my marriage, said the mother. The daughter was so shocked she hardly understood what the mother was saying.
I don’t remember answering, but I do remember what I would have said if I’d had any idea what she was talking about. Didn’t she know that this marriage also belonged to my father and to me and to my eight brothers and sisters? She looked so helpless there in her strange sweater, the wrong button in the wrong hole.
I have the letter I wrote her two days later, and I remember writing it, sitting on a bed in Gordon and Masha’s apartment in Cambridge—they were the couple who had taken care of me after the abortion, and now they were taking care of me again. I liked the way they lived, eating vegetables and brown rice, an apartment with no doors between rooms, calm, quiet voices. “Why don’t you write your mother a letter?” Gordon may have said.
I wrote in turquoise felt tip on onionskin paper. What I had to say roared out of me:
I’m sorry I was rude on the phone this morning, but I can’t help the fact that my feelings about you are extremely ambivalent at the moment. I would have thought you might have gathered that my decision not to go to Chicago to live with Arnold was not entirely a happy one—
As I read it now, remembering myself at 23, I think I must have wanted her, miraculously, to understand everything and make everything all right. What I said was that there was a lot she didn’t know about me: “I want to know you as a person,” I wrote, “but the mother-daughter thing confuses it a lot.”
The anger that you have gotten & are beginning to get again now has to do with my not having felt known & taken care of as your daughter, as a child & adolescent. I did try and make my terror of my plans clear & my general unsteadiness must have been obvious—so then you say (just a half hour before I leave), “I am having some problems with my marriage.” Now, are you being a mother or a friend? And if you are being the latter, do you have the right to be, to your daughter, about the marriage that produced her? And as the mother, wouldn’t you have been more sensitive to her state of mind or something? (It would have been different if you had said “Poppy & I are having a few problems with our marriage” for instance).
After I left her, I went straight to the Berkshires to pack up after the summer and managed to see a psychiatrist. I wanted her to imagine the worst, that I was turning into her manic-depressive, distressed mother and it was all her fault. How could she not know that everything in my life was falling apart: “Arnold, you, the end of school, the terror of beginning a new life.”
At the end of the letter, I was merciful and proud: she should know that “I am very excited, happy & on the upswing” (the phrase she often used to describe the better phases of Margarett’s psychological condition).
A week later, I got a letter from my father: “Sorry you have had such a rough time Chicago-wise etc. Things are a little bumpy here as I guess Mom indicated.” Neither revealed any details: that she actually wanted to leave the marriage, that he was—“Very angry. Hurt . . . sometimes inside my spirit & sort of in my mind, and sometimes in my chest, hurting hurting hurting.” The likelihood that he would be elected bishop of New York had precipitated a crisis. Turn down the job, he reported my mother saying, “knowing I couldn’t accept the suggestion.” Or she could stay in Washington? Nothing formal, rather living separate lives “sort of indefinitely until one of us wants to get married.” At the time, canon law of the Episcopal church forbade divorce even among laypeople and priests, except with special permission—in practice, a divorced man could not be bishop. “I think I will put it to her,” my father mused in a notebook, “would you want to leave the house if it meant leaving the children?” Of course there was always the chance he would not be elected.
Years later, I asked my sister Rosemary about that summer, and she reminded me it was the summer she and George went to Europe with my parents, as Paul and Adelia and I had in 1960. They visited a friend on the Greek island of Hydra and then went on to Athens. My mother had an almost disabling toothache, Rosie remembered. Talking once about those years, my aunt Margie remembered the toothache, and another story Jenny told her about that trip: that they were joined one night at a restaurant by a younger Episcopal priest “and some other people.” Such a coincidence that they were all in Athens at the same time! My mother did not believe it had been a coincidence, she told Margie. She felt, she said, “a frisson” between my father and the priest. Margie did not remember this detail until decades after my mother died: “I blocked it,” she said.
Writing history requires putting one thing next to another thing. When my mother told me that morning in the Adirondacks that she was having some problems with her marriage, I could not imagine what was wrong because I had no other thing to put next to what she said. At the time, what my mother felt—a sexual charge between her husband and another man—had the disorienting power of an unexpected assault. How could she not have known this? And she always believed their sexual problems had been hers! “She told me she thought he was the unhappiest man she’d ever known and that he was homosexual,” said one of the three women with whom I talked about my father’s secret.
“And so it was true,” said Margie, “and I never believed her.”
“Please go carefully if you write about it,” said the third friend. “She did love him, and you owe it to your father.” When I learned about his hidden life twenty years later, I had no judgment of my father—rather, a complicated blend of shock, sadness, and betrayal. Toward my mother, by then long dead, I felt a new mother-bear protectiveness.
In light of the incident at the café in Athens, what my mother said to me that morning on the porch was a drastic understatement: I am having some problems with my marriage. Even though a sequence of moments had built to her conclusion, the actual realization must have seemed to come out of the blue, as if a cataclysmic storm could descend when the sky was clear and the sun was out. That she did not ever confront my father or reveal to any of her children her suspicions was certainly self-protective, but it was also an act of extraordinary generosity. My father was at the height of his heroism, about to enter the triumphant chapter of his life. I thought I had to be ambitious for him, & I was is her surviving statement on the matter. Her continuing silence was a choice—I found no mention of my father’s sexual conflicts in any of her papers. If she ever wrote about it, she must have destroyed those pages before her death. I wonder when or if we would ever have talked about it.
Eighteen months after our moment on the porch, my mother will write me about the play that is in my head “Women, Mothers and Daughters”—I want to deal with who has a right to “hurt” whom? Can daughters “hurt” mothers or is that something else, like “acting out”? My thought of yesterday: set will be a lot of mirrors (among other things) some mirrors may get broken, etc. etc. At my suggestion, she was reading The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing, in 1970 the only novel around about contemporary women trying to hack out independent lives. Lessing used the phrase, “Free Women.” And so, my mother and I begin to stumble toward new terms of engagement—as free women.
As I stand at the entrance of the Chelsea Hotel with my suitcases, I can’t help noticing that all the writers commemorated there by bronze plaques are men and now dead—often of suicide—and that, like those men, I’d come here to write. In the lobby hung paintings by Arnold’s best friend Larry Rivers, and in the elevator women my age with sunken eyes and dull blond hair looked up at the ceiling and scratched their forearms. That final spring at Yale, I’d fallen in with a group of people who wanted to be “brilliant writers,” who were in graduate school solely to avoid the draft. One friend had quit the school anyway, beginning years of changing his address—“I’d move before I got any mail from the draft board and send them a change of address form; eventually they gave up on me.”
Now he was in Massachusetts writing a novel, and he thought I should write one too, so I set myself up, turning my desk to face a pair of French windows that looked out on 23d Street. A few days a week, I went uptown to an office where I was raising money for the play I was coproducing with my friend Ann—we had hired a director and were looking for a theater.
What do I remember from that fall? For the first time, I ate Häagen-Dazs ice cream, which then had only three flavors: vanilla, chocolate, and boysenberry sherbet (sorbet but not yet called that). My first night in town, Ann and I had supper at a Japanese restaurant on Eighth Street, and an actor who had made his name off-Broadway sat down with us. He had just turned down a part in a film, he was proud to tell us. Later he would become a movie star named Al Pacino. That summer, in the Berkshires, I’d met a writer named Venable, a playwright and screenwriter who had written a movie called Alice’s Restaurant, about the draft and people I sort of knew in Stockbridge. I had a crush on him, so I invited him to a party at my Berkshire rental; late in the evening, I asked to kiss him. He said no, he was living with someone. Couldn’t we just have lunch? No. I talked to Ann about him all the time, shocked at the plots she devised to help me steal him from the girlfriend he was living with in Los Angeles. Once a week I went uptown to see my new psychiatrist.
And then one night, Arnold called from Chicago. He was coming into the city, did I want to have a drink? I hesitated, but within seconds acquiesced. We had dinner, and afterward, he came back to the Chelsea with me and we took the elevator to my room—lovers again, it seemed. He would be in town for several weeks, he said. He was translating the Bertolt Brecht–Kurt Weill opera Mahagonny for the man who had produced their legendary Threepenny Opera, which had run forever off-Broadway. Having
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