This biopic of Mary Magdalene is a feminist retelling that may well be deserved but it’s so dreary and unremarkable that the fact it is well intentioned and even, perhaps, necessary can’t come through and win the day. Or even part of the day. Just the morning, say.
Directed by Garth Davis (Lion), and written by Helen Edmundson and Philippa Goslett, this is, according to the bumf, the Mary of the original gospels rather than the repentant sinner and ‘prostitute’, which is what, in truth, I always had her down as, but then I did get most of my learning from Jesus Christ Superstar. I now know, however, that ‘fallen woman’ was only ever an invention put about by Pope Gregory I in the sixth century, later perpetuated by Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber, who should have known better, frankly.
Here, Mary (Rooney Mara) is not just surely the whitest woman ever to exist indigenously in the Middle East but has also been awarded a back story that is just the sort of back story you would award Mary in such a retelling. So she’s the daughter of a patriarchal fishing family — the whitest patriarchal fishing family ever to exist in the Middle East, surely — and they can’t get over her refusal to marry, so beat her up, in effect. She withdraws (i.e. lies on a mat and stares wordlessly into space) until she is visited by this preacher and healer they’ve all heard about. Jesus (Joaquin Phoenix) does home visits! He cups her head in his hands and she says: ‘We women, our lives are not our own.’ And he says: ‘Your spirit is your own. You must follow God.’ And she’s smitten, even though you are desperate to interrupt and say: ‘Hang on, Maz, he’s just delivering you from one patriarchy to another! Have a think about this, love, please.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in