Mary Bronstein’s If I Had Legs I’d Kick You is that rare bird of a motion picture that drives discussion and debate, entertains and enlightens, all while sending your blood pressure to levels that may or may not require a quick trip to the ER. That it’s harrowing and stressful is a given, but who knew that at the end of its 113 minutes, you’d be ready to sign up – with cultish devotion, mind you – for the elimination of parenthood as a social good. In fact, in the numbing afterglow of my viewing, I was ready to call for the very extinction of the species. No dating, no marriage, and sure as hell no procreation. It’s over. Done. We gave it a shot, and it didn’t take. For if anyone can be so moved to embrace such things in the face of that, we haven’t the language (or the means) to address our collective psychosis. The only logical response is, and must be, a barren womb, a child-free existence, and a return of the earth to the water and wind. The clock starts now.
At the center of this gothic horror story is Linda (Rose Byrne), giving the sort of performance we never expected, but can no longer live without. She’s set the new standard; a cinematic marker for the overwhelmed, the put-upon, and the desperately sad. She’s a woman, yes, and more importantly, a mother, but this is no screed against the alleged crimes of the patriarchy. Instead, this is a full-throated assault on the very idea that anyone, anywhere, at any time, can derive fulfillment from the parenting of a wee one. It’s not a lack of childcare, or a problem with tax policy, or even the absence of fathers. No, it’s the age-old dilemma that never changes. The same bullshit from cave days to modern life. We do it to continue the line, but absent that instinctive impulse, no one can make a case. Every argument would be a stretch. And yet the societal pressure continues unabated. Were it not joyless, there’d be no need for the endless propaganda.
As we begin, Linda is on her own. Not always, mind you, but for now. Her husband is in the Navy, and he’s away. Certainly not for the first time. So Linda must balance. Juggle. Take on the responsibilities of a child while working as a therapist. That Linda is a shrink is the ultimate in-joke, the old adage “physician, heal thyself” writ large. Because we know. We’re all nuts, and the best way to figure out why is to enter the trade. She has no business labeling and lecturing others, of course, but that’s just the side hustle. She’s on the couch while sitting beside it; getting paid while digging for dirt. And to a man, her patients are hopelessly needy; calling her personal number late at night, begging for additional sessions, demanding exclusivity. And then there is Caroline. The new mom. Naturally, she can’t handle it. She couldn’t before, and certainly not now. She’s both a mirror and accusatory lens. Linda wants to reassure at the same time she recoils.
The pace is unbearably frantic. From session to home, to the medical appointments that make up her daughter’s day. It’s telling that we never actually see the little girl, as she remains a disembodied voice of unrelenting demands. She whines, complains, begs, and bullshits, reminding us all that yes, there’s an occasional highlight – first word, first Christmas, that initial bike ride – but the other 23 hours a day, they’re driving you fucking insane. They never shut up, ever. And if they did, well, that would mean there was something else wrong with them. Never before has a film been so adamant in its push to define parenthood as pure exhaustion. While we never learn the exact medical issue, it does involve a feeding tube, suggesting possible Munchausen by proxy. And here, again, is the stroke of genius. There’s a fine line between a Supermom and an abusive maniac, and since we’re never given the full picture, we’re left to decide on our own. Perhaps they’re one and the same.
On top of that, there’s the matter of the ceiling. The collapsed ceiling, to be exact, and the added stress of managing contractors and an extended stay in a seedy motel while it is fixed. And those phone calls. Dozens and dozens, mostly to dad, where the parties involved shout, accuse, and end matters early before they get too truthful. These exchanges drive the story, yes, but they also hit an essential point: the world, far from cooperative, is anything but helpful. We’re on our own, all the time. Even the employees at the motel are unnecessarily difficult. How anything gets done in the face of such rudeness and incompetence is beyond me. It’s a miracle we haven’t descended into full anarchy. Or maybe we have. Funny how the slow burn of normalization takes away the shock. Linda is but one resident of this earthly madhouse, and she’s got more than most: a job, a husband, a credit card or two. And she still can’t manage a thing. The most shocking thing of all is that we aren’t eating each other whole in the streets by this point.
I know, I know, poor Linda. It’s life, deal with it. Sack up and shut up. More than fair. But then it hits you. Again and again. Take the child out of the equation and the sky clears. The clouds part, birds sing, and manageable returns from the land of the impossible. The endless beeping of the feeding tube stops cold, granting Linda a moment to reflect. Get her bearings. Live. And I know what you’re thinking: this is just my take, a proud, unapologetic man without attachments. Easy for me to say. And then Linda says out loud what a woman never should: I hate my child. More specifically, “I aborted the wrong one.” It hits like a dagger, only because moms are supposed to cuddle and nurture and smile for the camera. No shock there’s also an Andrea Yates reference afoot. The ultimate betrayal of womankind. But like Linda also remarks, some just aren’t cut out for this. Never were. But they caved. Adhered to expectation. Made do because only monsters fight biology. And the more detestable Linda becomes, the more I love her. Admitting regret, especially when it involves your children, is as brave as any single act on D-Day. More so. And Purple Hearts for all who survive the massacre.
Which brings us to the end. Linda, fleeing the despair at last, decides to walk into the ocean. Run, if we’re being honest. She enters once, but the waves have other plans. Back on the beach you go. A second attempt is made, no dice. A third, and the water has made its point, spitting her out like undigested food. There will be no escape after all. She’s stuck. Locked in place without any alternative. Cue the expected thunderclap. There it is. Once engaged, you’ve got to stick it out. A mom forever, like a tattoo on the soul. An inescapable label that never lets up. You can climb the highest mountain, still a mom. Cure cancer, sure, but how are the kids? And it’s here where the real revolution can begin. Fighting the man, or the system, or injustice itself can only occur if we stop. Cease operations. Board up the windows and walk away. Full equality at last, only you’ve got to make a stand. Yessir, the day women stop feeding the beast is the day parity is possible. Side by side for a change, instead of falling behind. Let Linda be our opening salvo.
Leave a Reply