The Testament of Ann Lee

Merry F-ing X-mas! What a movie to release on Christmas morning for the whole family to go out and see! Those two zany kids, actors-turned-writer-directors Mona Fastvold and Brady Corbet (whose depressing, overwrought, 215-minute VistaVision period epic The Brutalist somehow became my favorite movie of the previous year), are back with an even more unrelenting period downer. The Testament of Ann Lee is a historical drama done as a period musical (except for a few discordant electric guitars in the soundtrack) about the founder of the 18th-century religious sect known as the Shakers.

Amanda Seyfried gives a dizzying tour-de-force performance as the titular Ann Lee, who goes from Manchester child factory worker to prominent member of a group of English Quakers whose loud, vocal, and physicalized form of worship earns them the nickname "Shaking Quakers," to the female Messiah many Christians have been waiting for. Renamed "Mother Ann" and preaching that celibacy even between married couples is the only way to attain true spiritual purity and satisfaction, she and her small group of followers undertake the dangerous journey to the American colonies to establish their religion in the New World.

Seyfried has always been a fine actor, but her resting face is more expressive than most Hollywood stars giving their full-on Oscar-clip scenes. I could easily imagine this actor being a tad too much for this character in ways that could have been unintentionally funny. But not to worry. Intentionally or unintentionally, there is nothing funny in this heavy picture. Seyfried holds us enthralled despite her character's madness and devotion to the religious cult she has created. As religious cults go, the Shakers were a benign sect, but a religious cult is a religious cult, and it's downright creepy spending time with these people.

Director Fastvold, Production Designer Sam Bader, and Costume Designer Malgorzata Karpiuk recreate the period with impressive detail, though cinematographer William Rexer's muddy 35mm photography, blown up to 70mm for selected theaters, only succeeds in reminding us how dark and gloomy the world was before electricity. (Can we find a happy medium between the ultra-high exposure latitude of modern digital cameras and the so-dark-we-can't-see-it of modern digital color correction? Why did 35mm photography look so much better when the film stocks were vastly inferior?) Even in a movie theater without absurdly illuminated floor lighting or bright red exit signs shining onto the screen, this picture is frustratingly underlit.

Fortunately, the dynamically composed sequences featuring Celia Rowlson-Hall's choreography are fantastic at conveying the euphoric physical release these forever-chaste, hyper-pious religious practitioners engage in. While many of the dance moves feel ultra-modern, with their rapid switches between held positions, they come across as more organically motivated than the songs by composer Daniel Blumberg. These musical moments never feel obtrusive, yet I couldn't fully understand their purpose. If characters in a film are going to break into song, why have it happen so infrequently?