If I Had Legs I'd Kick You (2025) – A Harrowing, Beautiful Nightmare of Motherhood's Madness
Hello, movie lovers! In this review, I'm plunging into the suffocating shadows of maternal despair with If I Had Legs I'd Kick You (2025), written and directed by Mary Bronstein in her long-awaited sophomore feature. Starring Rose Byrne as the unraveling Linda, with supporting turns from Christian Slater as her absent husband Charles, Mary Bronstein as a berating doctor, and Conan O'Brien as a hostile therapist, this R-rated psychological drama (1h 53m) lays bare the terror of caregiving. A24's October 10 domestic release (after Sundance buzz and Telluride premiere) turned heads, and I was gutted from the first frame—beautifully disturbing, earning a 9/10. Let's unpack the pressure.
If I Had Legs I'd Kick You (2025) - A Raw, Relentless Portrait of Parental Panic
Mary Bronstein's return after 17 years is a thunderclap—a film that doesn't just show motherhood's horrors, it makes you feel them in your bones. From the opening collapse (that living-room ceiling caving in, a metaphor for everything crushing Linda), I was trapped in her anxiety spiral: a therapist treating others while her own world implodes. The title? It's frustration incarnate—not violent threat, but the all-consuming rage of endless, unseen labor. Byrne's Linda is a force: witty, worn, wickedly wry one moment, wailing the next—her frustration boils over at everyone (husband on endless cruises, doctors dodging blame, her own eye-rolling shrink). It's not just illness; it's isolation, guilt, the fear of snapping. At 9/10, it's a beautifully made gut-punch—disturbing in the best way, leaving you wrung out but wiser. Not for everyone (more on that), but for those who've carried similar weights? Cathartic catharsis.
The movie also reminded me The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. See also: Book Review: Charlotte Perkins Gilman – The Yellow Wallpaper (and Other Stories)
The Plot: From Crumbling Home to Psychological Abyss
Linda (Rose Byrne), a sharp psychotherapist, is already frayed—treating patients' breakdowns while her daughter's undiagnosed illness devours their days. Absent husband Charles (Christian Slater, mostly a phone phantom) sails seas of denial; a missing person case nags at the edges; and Linda's own sessions with a cutting therapist (Conan O'Brien, vanishing into venom) mirror her unraveling. As symptoms spiral—seizures, sedations, secrets—the apartment becomes a pressure cooker: ceilings crack (literally and figuratively), blame bounces like a bad dream, and Linda questions what's real amid the exhaustion. Is it hallucination? Hostility? Or just the horror of holding it all together alone?
Bronstein's script, drawn from her maternal trenches, clocks 113 minutes of intimate intensity—no tidy arcs, just the "series of cliff climbs" where every peak reveals another drop. A24's low-budget indie (under $1M, grossing $1.2M) thrives on close-ups and quiet chaos, echoing Aftersun's ache with Hereditary's haunt. TIFF and Telluride raves called it a "howl of maternal desperation spiked with jagged humor"—and yeah, it lands.
Performances That Pierce the Panic
Rose Byrne is Linda—a Silver Bear winner for Best Leading Performance at Berlin, her every tic (frustrated flinch, forced smile) screams authenticity. She balances wry wit with wrenching wails, making the madness magnetic. Christian Slater's Charles is a ghost in the machine—exasperated echoes that amplify the absence. Bronstein's doctor berates with brutal precision, O'Brien's therapist rolls eyes like daggers. In this ensemble of emotional evisceration, Byrne bears the brunt—and breaks through.
A Bronstein Breakthrough on Motherhood's Monstrosity
Bronstein (Yeast's mumblecore maven) crafts a Safdie-esque stress-fest—claustrophobic close-ups, time-blurring edits that trap you in Linda's "end-of-the-world" fog. Visuals? Stark: peeling walls, flickering fluorescents, a child's unseen face redirecting rage to the mother's mask. Sound? Suffocating—distant cries, slamming doors, silence that screams. It's The Babadook without the bumps, Saint Maud with strollers: a female-centered fever dream probing guilt's grip, support's scarcity, and the "superhero" myth of moms. Compared to Nightbitch or The Lost Daughter, it's rawer, funnier in its frenzy—a 2025 standout for unflinching intimacy.
Ratings and Critical Reception
IMDb: 6.9/10 (4,800 users), RT: 94% critics (155 reviews)/79% audience (Popcornmeter).
Critics crown it a "virtuosic portrait of mental unraveling" and "immersive nerve-wracker," praising Byrne's "courageous work" and Bronstein's "honest howl." Audiences split on the "exhausting execution"—some call it "devastatingly honest," others "dull daring." Box office: $1.2M on sub-$1M budget—A24's niche niche.
My 9/10 aligns with the acclaim—its disturbance disturbs deeply.
A Minor Critique: Reality's Blurry Blur and Niche Nightmare
The film's fever-dream haze—ceiling cracks bleeding into doubt (dream? Delusion? Decay?)—thrills but tires, leaving you questioning too much without anchors; it's immersive, but the ambiguity risks detachment over dread. Worse, it's not universal: crafted for those who've borne (or witnessed) similar burdens—moms, partners, kin in crisis—leaving outsiders adrift in its intimate intensity. Bronstein owns it—no mass appeal intended.
A Harrowing Howl for the Weary and the Witness
At 9/10, If I Had Legs I'd Kick You is a masterpiece of maternal monstrosity—beautifully disturbing, a mirror to the madness of unseen strain. Byrne's breakdown broke me; Bronstein's vision validates the violated. For those in the trenches? Healing howl. Rewatch? When the weight warrants.
What hit you hardest—Linda's lash-outs or the unseen child's shadow? Drop your doubts below, and suggest my next emotional evisceration! Like, follow, share so the ceilings don't cave. Thanks for holding space—see you in the wreckage.
