Rose Byrne Gives the Performance of a Lifetime in ‘If I Had Legs I’d Kick You’

Many moons ago, I wrote a review of a sweet little movie called Juliet, Naked, in which I waxed rhapsodic about the reliably magnetic screen presence of the actor Rose Byrne. She’s just always so good, whether she’s stealing scenes in comedies like Spy or doing under-heralded dramatic work on Damages. Yet she mostly doesn’t get her due as one of the more versatile and consistently watchable stars in the game. Now I’m going to sing her praises yet again, this time for something far bleaker than a nice romantic comedy.

Byrne’s latest film is If I Had Legs I’d Kick You (henceforth to be referred to as Kick You), which premiered here at the Sundance Film Festival on Friday. In some ways, its timing is fortuitous: Demi Moore’s recent Oscar nomination shows that the powers that be may, in fact, be open to looking for great performances in darker, grimier movies than they used to. So put Byrne on that map for now. But in another way, Kick You may suffer from a feeling of redundancy—its look at the madness of motherhood is awfully similar to that of last year’s Nightbitch. Will Kick You be seen as a mere echo of that film?

Maybe. Though I’d argue that while the movies are certainly similar in general premise, they differ greatly in execution and conclusion. Kick You, written and directed by Mary Bronstein, stars Byrne as Linda, a harried therapist living on the eastern end of Long Island who is undergoing several travails at once. Her teenage daughter, who is regularly heard but unseen, has a disorder that causes an intense psychological aversion to food. She must be fed via tube while she sleeps every night, and spends her days not at school, but at a clinic for children suffering with that condition. The ceiling of their modest apartment collapses, meaning they have to go live in a ratty beachside motel. And to make matters even worse, Linda’s husband is off on a work trip for two months. So Linda is alone with her family’s problems, sleepless and unraveling.

Rather than imagining herself becoming a feral dog, as happens in Nightbitch, Linda descends into a haze of wine, weed, and something like hallucination. Exhausted and overwhelmed and perpetually barraged by clamorous noises and urgent demands (of her child, of her patients, of her husband on the phone), Linda pauses for a moment here and there and does a kind of astral projection into the black heart of her anxieties and disappointments. The ominous hole in her ceiling seems to function as a portal to a plane either of understanding and comfort, or of obliteration. (Which might be its own kind of comfort at this point.)

That surreal, metaphysical stuff is only gestured toward in Bronstein’s relentless film. No answers for what’s happening are given. We are only to understand that Linda is, understandably in some ways, completely losing it, and is in desperate need of support—which, to her increasing frustration, no one is offering her. This makes for a tough sit, and I bolted out of the theater when the end credits rolled in dire need of fresh air and quietness of mind. At first, I thought I didn’t like the movie. But then, of course, I quickly realized that the film had simply done its job; the whole point is for the audience to desperately want out, just as Linda does.

Compared to Nightbitch, Bronstein’s film is either admirably or cruelly unwilling to soothe or resolve anything. Bronstein is making a much more despairing argument about the realities of parenting—specifically of motherhood, which all too often comes with a heap of extra burden. It can be a kind of hell, complicated and confused by an enduring if not always triumphant love. Or so I’m told. I don’t have children myself, and after watching Kick You, I’m not sure why anyone would want to.

A parent might argue that this is an unfair takeaway from this or any movie about the psychological wages of raising kids. Maybe Bronstein’s harrowing depiction pushes that point too demanding, is too ornately negative and evasively designed to omit the aid and resources and, yes, occasional pleasures, that would greet Linda in the real world. (Though I would argue that the callousness of those around Linda is probably meant to be a manifestation of how Linda irrationally sees the world, rather than a literal portrait of a wasteland of uncaring people.) Whether Kick You’s thesis is nihilistic or forthright will be in the eye of each beholder.

What is inarguable about the film is Byrne’s breakneck performance, a symphony of both deadened senses and jangled nerves. Byrne is alert and stupefied at once, palpably conjuring the feeling of running brisk on fumes. Though Linda makes some questionable choices in the film, Byrne keeps her sympathetic throughout, hurling Linda’s pain through the screen, making sure it is undeniable to those of us watching, alarmed and exhausted, in the audience.

Byrne’s commitment to misery is something to behold, and will hopefully once again remind the industry of her considerable and varied talents. There’s a scene where she’s desperately pleading for guidance (to her therapist, played by a great Conan O’Brien—seriously) that will break your heart. In another moment she’s bitingly amusing, a sardonic and bitter good-time. It’s a towering performance, a feat of intelligence and energy that tightly binds to all of Bronstein’s heady, propulsive style. Let’s hope Byrne gets recognized for all of that demanding work in some fashion, even if Linda never gets credit for hers.