No, this is not a blasphemous feature about the Holy Mother of the Lord Jesus Christ. Neither is it a sacrilegious attempt to desecrate the most revered Holy Queen. This is about Mother Mary, directed by David Lowery — described as a pop-opera thriller centered on a world-famous pop star as she spirals downward in the most scandalous and traumatic manner during a concert.

The film plays out like tabloid news about the downfall of a major star, given the most excessive cinematic treatment — one that will test your patience and leave you wondering: What is the meaning behind all the madness and conceit?

The plot

Yes, there is a plot. It revolves around Mary (Anne Hathaway), whose look is very Lady Gaga–ish in terms of costume and styling. The bustiers and corsets were so divine on Mary’s svelte frame. The headdress — resembling oversized, decorated rays or halos worn by saints — added drama and a sense of holiness to the persona she created. Her stance and projection were spot-on.

And of course, we all know Hathaway can carry a tune — arguably better than Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta (Gaga’s real name). She won her Oscar and Golden Globe for Best Supporting Actress for her role as Fantine in the film adaptation of Les Misérables, for crying out loud. On the concert stage, Mary ruled and reigned.

But something gnawed at her from within — draining her confidence and composure, destroying her bit by bit. Then, with one misstep, everything went dark, and she found herself in a state of damnation.

To salvage what remained unadulterated in her life, she reunited with a long-lost friend, Sam Anselm (Michaela Coel), a visionary fashion designer. This Anselm character looked like one of those Avatar-like femme fatales brought to life. There was an icy, menacing quality about her. The way she spoke — and her choice of words — was always razor-sharp.

The reunion

The reunion between Mary and Sam unfolded through a long, drawn-out exposition that nearly lulled me to sleep. They kept talking as if there were no tomorrow. The characters exchanged diatribes through which we discover their past closeness, laced with lesbian undertones, and their bittersweet parting — like something straight out of a Shakespearean play. We also learn the shocking reason behind their reconnection.

As they peeled away their wounds and stripped off their masks, I simply could not find it within myself to feel sympathy for these two troubled souls trapped in their successful bodies and careers.

What I say

All I saw on screen was a pop star reduced to a whiny, wimpy figure — someone constantly asking, “What should I do?” and “Why is this happening to me?”

To be fair to Hathaway, she delivered splendidly in portraying a woman completely destroyed — her performance a cry for help, her lamentations valid for a pop star teetering on the edge of a tragic fall into ordinariness. That level of existential angst, however, was simply too heavy for me to handle.

And I couldn’t help but wonder: as the world’s biggest pop star, why didn’t she seek professional help — perhaps consult a psychiatrist and exorcise her demons with proper treatment, even with just sleeping aids? It was baffling.