Nightbitch (2024)

Usually I don't review films I deem disposable, the ones that get shut off as they prove themselves unworthy to push through. But Nightbitch is a specific whimper of a film exacerbated by the particular trends of the streaming landscape of 2024. I'm not sure who to credit for the theory but people have been noting that films made for streaming sport specific writing patterns designed for optimal LISTENING rather than WATCHING. Maybe the meme of "insisting upon itself" has helped push this idea but I couldn't get any of it out of my head when watching the dead air of content that is Nightbitch.

What specifically irritates me about this film is it's not one I actually wanted to dislike, in fact despite a rocky start I found nuggets to appreciate. The acting is solid with lead Amy Adams stepping into the role of an artist strung out on the exhaustions of motherhood and the unrelenting hyperactivity of her child; while her husband comfortably settles into the cradle of weaponized incompetence. It's hard not to feel Adams is giving her best when she so naturally plays off her child who is smartly given free reign to actually act on the unpredictable and charming impulses of his young actor. As the two slowly bond by giving into the animalistic instincts of dogs I found myself desperately hoping the funk would wear off and I could enjoy the doggie dinner in front of me.

Nightbitch, however, bites the hand that feeds. For every subtlety Amy Adams can try to put in her performance my immersion is immediately slapped by a newspaper roll smattered with groan inducing writing. It is deathly afraid you'll fall deaf to its litanies on motherhood and the balance it takes to maintain one foot in the adulting world and one foot in your child's world, that it trains you to pay less attention to what is onscreen and instead to passively listen while you defeatedly reach for your iPhone. Constant eye-rolling dialogue that describes exactly what is being shown, what the characters are feeling, and how we as viewers should feel about it. Brazenly curdling its message by coddling the viewer into the same zombie-like state of existence it's trying to critique. All to just throw its paws up and admit it doesn't even know what it's trying to say by hurling different social commentaries at the screen hoping you'll find something to gnaw on.

But it's all dry as a bone, a sheltered piece of filmmaking that's too scared to actually push buttons and make bold artistic choices. It's that whining dog constantly seeking validation, pawing at your leg but never wanting something other than to be rewarded. What could have been a film that pits the whimsy of childhood imagination against the clinical responsibilities of adulthood instead brings forth a different kind of escapist fantasy. One where I found myself wanting to do quite literally anything else; hell, sniffing a dog's ass seems like it could elicit a more complex reaction. All I get when I look up Nightbitch's ass is its own head.