“Mommy is stretchy,” a child points out about her mother at the beginning of If I Had Legs I’d Kick You. Linda, the mother, flinches at the description, yet it’s genuinely accurate. How often do mothers stretch themselves to their limits for the sake of their loved ones—how much can they withstand before they break? This, in essence, reflects the challenges of motherhood and what Mary Bronstein’s latest film captures with a mix of rawness and dark humor.
Rose Byrne, delivering a career-defining performance, portrays Linda, a therapist in Montauk balancing on the edge as she navigates her daughter’s mysterious ailment while dealing with life’s calamities. The ceiling of her apartment collapses, forcing them into a motel; a patient mysteriously goes missing; and her oblivious husband, away on business, scolds her over the phone. Throughout it all, her own unfazed therapist (masterfully portrayed by Conan O’Brien) offers little consolation.
With a recent surge of films exploring the extreme facets of motherhood, such as Nightbitch, Saint Omer, and Tully, Bronstein’s offering adds a new, unsentimental layer to the discourse, characterized by daring creative decisions. The daughter, observed only through her feeding apparatus, remains unnamed and mostly concealed from view, shifting the spotlight onto Linda’s internal struggles of guilt, dread, and self-reproach. While inspired by Bronstein’s personal journey caring for a seriously ill child, the film, she emphasizes, is “not literally autobiographical, but emotionally truthful.”
If I Had Legs I’d Kick You also heralds the highly anticipated resurgence of a distinct voice in indie cinema. Bronstein first made waves in the mid-2000s with Yeast, a film that acquired a cult following, with notable contributions from Greta Gerwig and the Safdie brothers. Here, she shares insights with Vogue on the unexpected reactions to her debut feature, finding levity in bleakness, and the significance of presenting a “challenging” narrative surrounding motherhood.
Vogue: Your journey began in theater before you ventured into filmmaking. When did the desire to make films crystallize for you?
Mary Bronstein: It wasn’t a straightforward path; it was rather unconventional. I became fixated on movies as a teenager, consuming everything featuring my favorite actors. Many aspiring filmmakers I spoke to had similar experiences but with directors instead. Eventually, I noticed a particular director behind this collection of films, which intrigued me.
After pursuing acting studies at the Strasberg Institute, I went to Tisch and later the Playwrights Horizons studio, where I delved into every aspect from acting to directing. Half a year in, I stumbled upon my passion for directing. Each week, we’d have assignments to write and enact short plays. That’s when I realized I had been mistaken about wanting to act; my true desire was to sculpt characters and bring them to life on screen.
Being part of the Frownland crew, which has become a hallmark of New York’s film community—featuring Ronald Bronstein, the Safdie brothers, and cinematographer Sean Price Williams—how did you find your entry into that circle?
Right after graduating, I chanced upon an audition flyer for Frownland at Tisch, where I met Ronnie, the film’s director and now my husband. I vividly recall the flyer featuring a three-panel Peanuts comic strip highlighting Charlie Brown’s tragic circumstances. They were in search of a young actress for a teenage role, but the flyer more pointedly referenced the kind of persona they hoped to attract. I couldn’t let anyone else take it, so I took the flyer.
The audition was more like a dialogue, figuring out who I was, how my personality could evolve into a character, rather than simply trying to fit into a pre-defined script. That presented a refreshing contrast to the strict breakdown of plays I’d been doing in theater school. It was eye-opening and exhilarating, and I instantly knew that was the style I wanted to adopt. Frownland effectively became my film school; I immersed myself in every technical detail whenever I wasn’t in front of the camera.
It’s been quite a while since Yeast. I understand the initial reception wasn’t as you anticipated, and you took a break from filmmaking afterward. What did that hiatus encompass?
When Yeast premiered at South by Southwest in 2008, I vividly recall the adverse reception. I sat in the front row, with an audience of men glaring at me, visibly displeased. I sensed a wave of aggression, like, Who do you think you are making this film? It felt as if my work was threatening their territory. Instead of motivating me, it left me feeling unwelcome. I withdrew, thinking, They don’t want me around, so I’ll stay away. However, with hindsight, I don’t regret that time away from film, as those experiences equipped me to construct If I Had Legs I’d Kick You, allowing me to convey what I had lived through.
I believe people can fall into a trap by adhering to a traditional route: film school, create a movie, then another. But what narratives are you crafting? What genuine experiences do you possess apart from filmmaking? I mean it sincerely. If I had steadfastly pursued that path, I honestly question what I’d be making movies about today. During my break, I explored countless ventures. I obtained two graduate degrees—one in psychology and another in a specialized field focusing on sick and disabled children. I spent years working in New York City hospitals, became a parent, and co-founded an impromptu preschool in Williamsburg.
An underground preschool? New York appears to have an insatiable need for more educational options.
It was a truly covert operation. By the end, we found expectant mothers enrolling. Simultaneously, I was consistently writing, though unsure how to re-enter filmmaking. Then an incident struck—my daughter fell gravely ill, compelling me to devote myself entirely to her care. We relocated to San Diego, spending our days in a cramped motel, solely focused on her recovery and eventually returning to New York. Yet, another realization dawned: When she recovers, and we return to New York, then what happens? Who am I?
One night, while sitting on the bathroom floor after she had fallen asleep—my sole refuge—it struck me: I am an artist. I am a filmmaker. I am a storyteller. I had been intuitively avoiding acknowledging that identity, uneasy following the harsh reception of Yeast. But then I resolved, no more. I would forge my own path. That pivotal moment kicked off the writing of this film—literally from that bathroom and emotional vantage point.
Photo: A24
The discourse around “difficult women” has surged lately, yet you’ve been crafting unflinching depictions for years—first with Yeast and then your short film Roundtown Girls. Do you feel the culture has finally caught up with your earlier vision?
Yeast has taken on a life of its own, and I continuously receive requests from theaters to showcase it. Young people today seem angrier, and I believe that anger breeds something compelling. It extends to both women and men who resonate with this sentiment. Back in the mid 2000s, such energy simply didn’t exist. Today, there’s an element of fantasy fulfillment: while I might not act aggressively in reality, art permits that exploration. The characters we watch can embody those impulses for us, allowing us to share in their experiences.
Unfortunately, most stories about women are still told from a male perspective. I recognize that’s not a popular opinion, but it’s the truth. I have little desire to create a film centered on a male lead—my interest in such endeavors is akin to my interest in space travel. I fail to understand the fascination some have with us. What compels this focus on trying to define our experiences? While curiosity may play a role, a less generous interpretation leans towards control: I’ll define your narrative. It’s great that a film like last year’s—with a similar budget to mine—won Best Picture, yet it tells the story of a female sex worker, crafted and directed by a man. While I don’t know the filmmaker personally and harbor no animosity, I question: can we not move past this? Why does this narrative persist as what we celebrate?
In If I Had Legs I’d Kick You, a series of unfortunate events unfold one after another. Critics have labeled it “over the top”—too grim, too tumultuous. What is your response?
The rule of thumb is that if you create art meant for everyone, you ultimately end up satisfying no one. Why must it follow a catastrophic path? Why frame it as nightmarish? Because that accurately represents the story, embodying the emotions I experienced. I’ve conveyed that reality through elements of horror, surrealism, and avant-garde techniques, rooted in a deep, authentic experience. The answer, candidly, is: it had to unfold this way. It could’ve unfolded differently, but it didn’t.
For me, the pivotal inquiry isn’t merely whether viewers align with it; it’s about how the film evokes feelings within them. If discomfort arises, why? Why is discomfort perceived as so alarming? It’s a film—it won’t inflict harm. Why do we find that sensation intolerable? Why does it stir anger rather than invoking curiosity or empathy? This is art’s role: to reflect our truths back at us. Ultimately, what’s projected on-screen is a reflection of everyone observing. I cherish the multitude of interpretations audiences bring to the film, even when they diverge from my own.
Are there interpretations you’ve received that stood out to you?
Someone speculated there never was a daughter. The film envelops the audience within Linda’s perspective, providing no means to validate the events. When that notion was raised, I thought, of course—that’s an interpretation one could certainly arrive at.
The film’s humor intertwines seamlessly with its more harrowing elements.
Humor is essential to my existence. It functions as my primary coping mechanism. When faced with discomfort, I laugh. I believe our bodies can release tension through laughter or crying. Growing up, the question always loomed: would we laugh or cry? The film certainly embraces that motif. It’s a delicate balance to strike, and Rose inherently grasps comedic subtleties, extracting humor from places one wouldn’t expect. Often, laughter emerges right after a moment of sadness, or vice versa, and she’s adept at navigating that spectrum. Few possess that capability.
Conan demonstrated this understanding as well. During our initial meeting, he read the script, and without giving too much away, got to the hamster scene and enthusiastically exclaimed, “Please make that happen,” which cracked him up. I’ve experienced screenings where certain moments garner significant laughter, while others evoke silence, often swayed by the audience’s mood. While the film can be appreciated as a straightforward comedy, humor is subjective; mine tends to lean toward the macabre.
Photo: A24
The visual aspects of the film, including lighting and cinematography, frequently evolve as Rose transitions between locales like the motel and her office. I also noticed a predominance of yellow tones in her attire and the wallpaper. What significance does that color hold for you?
In the hospital scenes, I aimed to steer clear of any inviting or comforting tone because that’s not Linda’s reality. The soundscape is actually inspired by prison noises. I selected sickly yellows that render everyone looking unwell. Rose is stunning and can pull off anything, yet that hue, under those conditions, proves unflattering. I also incorporated green—a color representing Linda’s escape while she smokes weed. Again, even that green was deliberately chosen for its emotional impact, leaning towards an almost grotesque palette. In outdoor scenes, we encounter sunshine, suggesting an escape from hell only to realize it’s a nice day. To me, that juxtaposition feels offensive, and I wanted to convey that sensation.
The characters exhibit vivid and sometimes grotesque interactions with food. For instance, Rose’s method of consuming pizza cheese with just her front teeth struck me. What drew you to that?
I have a profound appreciation for food and eating; it embodies the joys of life. However, in Legs, we’re confronted with a child who isn’t eating, thus all food was intended to be unappetizing. Linda forces herself to eat, yet finds no enjoyment, shoveling repugnant microwave meals. Even her peanut butter cups—supposedly a delicacy—are consumed in a binge. This resonates with my personal experience of stress-eating, like ordering a chaotic array of fast food and dining on the bathroom floor. It was a revolting experience. There was initially more content in the script, but after a valuable suggestion from my husband—usually my first audience—that it might be excessive, I decided to edit accordingly.
