The Ending Of ‘Mother Mary’ Isn’t A Ghost Story. It’s A Queer Breakup.
The Wikipedia page for A24’s latest psychosexual drama, Mother Mary, labels Sam Anselm as the titular pop star’s “estranged former friend”, but any queer with a pulse can clock this as a toxic romance gone wrong from a mile away.
A straight friendship that’s soured might be full of passive aggression, but only two gays could manifest the kind of resentment required for a mutual haunting, or have the kind of psychic connection that allows Sam to translate Mary’s physical movements and hand gestures into precise, succinct language, diagnosing the “clarity” the other has come looking for, in the form of a dress.
But all is not water under the bridge, and there are still debts left between the two uncollected.
Sam explains she was visited by a spectral vision after seeing Mary perform (and losing a wisdom tooth in a fit of rage), and Mary doesn’t even question the story, because she was visited twice by the same paranormal ‘entity’, once after a psychic fan slices open her hand during a séance, and a second time when she falls at her concert in what appears to many as a suicide attempt.
The way both women describe these encounters, it’s very clear that the “female” spirit represents the rage, trauma, resentment, and sadness that is left in the void where their relationship once lived.
Sam holds up an issue of Vogue magazine with a spread of Mary dressed as Joan of Arc, containing a quote in big, bold font where she takes credit for the look, which incorporated elements of Sam’s past. The red detail on Mary’s white dress was inspired by the first communion where Sam spilled red wine on herself. She resented never receiving credit for the artistic vision she poured so much of herself into.
Mary retorts that she had to bear the burden of that same artistic vision, of living up to the version of her that Sam’s imagination brought to life, both within their own relationship, and with the fans who fell in love with the vision that became larger than life.
Montages illustrate how Mary’s halo, capes, and trains become heavier and more grandiose each time she ascends to the stage, draining her more and more each time she steps off it. Sam makes reference to these designs, saying the designers who came after her kept trying to “outdo” the previous halo.
Mary buried the trauma deep inside as she lost herself in the ups and downs of her own fame rollercoaster, while Sam claims she was only able to build her own fashion line because she hated Mary. She self-identifies as Miss Havisham from Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations, a jilted bride who never moves on from the trauma of being abandoned on her wedding day.
These unhealthy coping mechanisms aren’t working for either woman, and Sam decides it’s time to exorcise the phantom pain/trauma/baggage right there and then.
Mary is reluctant to proceed with Sam’s impromptu séance. She’s not ready to let go of her pain. She claims it might “be her job now” to carry it around with her. To contain it inside of her. Even though the film indicates she initiated their professional parting, so she could explore new avenues for her on-stage persona, she expresses remorse that Sam felt that closed the door on all aspects of their relationship.
Mary wants Sam to love her again, and whether that is platonically or romantically remains “somewhat” ambiguous (every line of dialogue is sexually charged, not to mention the scene where Sam tenderly takes her measurements). What is clear is that Mary doesn’t know how to go about making amends. She tells Sam all she can offer her is flowers, a song, or a house. Sam seems interested in none of the above.
But during the séance sequence, Mary realizes she has a fourth option and grabs a pair of shears to cut open her chest, allowing Sam to reach inside and touch her heart. Sam then pulls the ‘ghost’ out of Mary’s chest, where it turns into a harmless piece of red fabric on the floor.
It’s in this moment of extreme intimacy between the two women that we can see Sam finally soften. Her chest is bleeding too. The pain exists between them and is shared by them. In order to heal, they both need to reopen the mutual wound and bleed in front of each other. It’s not a reconciliation or a rekindling. It’s closure. Sam specifically says they don’t know when they’ll next be in the same room together. And that line is the key to understanding the film’s ending.
After the magical realism of the exorcism, Mary’s entourage arrives to Sam’s secluded headquarters, as do the paparazzi. She leaves before Sam has finished the dress she came for, but not without uttering the three-fold apology Sam requested when she first arrived.
What started as a ploy for control—Sam dictating the rules, demanding what she wants of Mary: submission, remorse, and restricting how and when she can express it (we never hear the new single she refuses to listen to)—becomes a heartfelt moment of true connection, sincerity, and goodbye.
Sam doesn’t go with Mary. She says she may have a dress for her to see in the morning, but these lines of dialogue are the last we see them exchange. All that’s missing is the one unspoken statement: “I love you”, but we see that each of these creative women are expressing that exact sentiment through their respective art forms.
Sam finishes the couture dress, aided by Hunter Schafer’s “Hilda”, pleating and stitching the exorcised fabric into a work of art. Schafer begins narrating Mary’s concert for Sam, and it’s clear that Mary will never wear that dress on stage as intended. But the act of completing the design is Sam’s way of reintegrating Mary and the love between them into her professional life.
In parallel, we see Mary incorporate part of Sam’s vision into her “comeback” performance where she upstages a younger artist and sheds the burden of her persona to finally get back to basics and feel more like her authentic self on stage. She strips the costume off, to the shock and displeasure of the “team” that monitors her every move, and begins to sing her new song to the audience. A song Hilda realizes in an epiphany, isn’t for the fans, but for Sam herself.
Just as Sam poured herself into designs for Mary, Mary is returning the favor by pouring her relationship with Sam into her music. They’ve achieved a level of symbiotic give and take by the end, which is illustrated by the image of Mary in the completed red dress floating in mid-air, with the fabric connected directly to Sam’s chest.
Sam doesn’t have to suppress or resect Mary’s memory from her life, like the cancer she compares her to in her opening monologue. She can claim this chapter, and the work they did together, as part of the cohesive story of her identity. While she did pour so much of herself into Mary’s pop persona, she did so willingly out of love.
And Mary can carry Sam’s love with her without bearing the weight and responsibility of the persona that came with it. She can learn to express herself authentically through her art, but let Sam remain present in it through her music. They have each embodied the roles of muse and artist, haunter and haunted, and all they needed to heal was to acknowledge that connection instead of trying to sever or stifle it.