There's an uneven history of shiny Hollywood remakes of critically-acclaimed European films. Some update the continent's more artistic tones for a more fun-loving audience, like the guffawingly funny 1959 cross-dressing adventure Some Like it Hot (a remake of the instantly-forgotten 1935 French comedy Fanfare d'amour). Others dampen the acidity of European originals, like the tepid Downhill released a month before the COVID-19 pandemic (a remake of the more interestingly biting Östlund picture Force Majeure). 

Mothers' Instinct, the first feature film directed by cinematographer Benoît Delhomme, adopts the 2018 French film Duelles after its critical acclaim in his home country. And, unfortunately, it falls into the latter category, adding big-name stars and ballooning the budget but creating a dull facsimile of the original. 

As was the case in Downhill, the central reason for Hollywood's adaptation was a compelling central idea, so it's no wonder that Mothers' Instinct starts strong. Alice and Céline are mothers living next to each other in 1960s suburban America. Although they both have cracks in their marriages — like seemingly all women in 1960s suburban America, if Hollywood is to be believed — they're happy enough, each the spouse of her own generic corporate husband and the mom her own single young boy. That is, until one day Alice spots Céline's son, Max, standing precariously on a balcony. Although she tries to caution him down, he doesn't listen; she runs over to warn Céline but it's too late. Max falls, dying on impact. 

Of course, this is not good for the two women's friendship. Céline clearly suspects that Alice didn't do all in her power to save her son, and stages a similar situation with Alice's son, Theo, to prove that Alice could have rushed between the homes faster. Even Alice realizes the situation makes her look bad, but is unnerved by Céline's willingness to "test" her. Their relationship becomes even more strained as Céline befriends Theo, even being invited to his birthday party alongside a motley crew of appropriately-aged boys. Playing his 1960s role, Alice's husband is unworried and matter-of-fact about the Céline situation, and Céline's husband is equally male and unhelpful. 

All of this setup is moderately interesting, with the cold war between the two women playing out in the staircases, yards, living rooms, and other confined spaces of the two homes (shot by the cinematographer-turned-director himself). But presently the story unwinds, its interesting what's-she-gonna-do setup loosely turning into a rote carrying out of revenge. And while the movie is elevated by its stars — Anne Hathaway as the increasingly unhinged Céline, and Jessica Chastain as the anxious Alice — they aren't given nearly enough to work with in terms of interesting characterization. 

In fact, most directorial choices in Mothers' Instinct stifle intrigue, rather than embrace it. The 1960s setting is used as a scapegoat for making the women restrained and the men dispassionate, instead of questioning the gender roles they're generationally being forced to play. The manicured suburban homes confine the action to the same several rooms, which promotes welcome familiarity at first but becomes boring over even the 90-minute runtime. The central wrongdoing, that of Alice's fateful inaction, is expected to do all the heavy lifting but isn't enough to carry the story. And when revenge starts escalating, it's all the melodramatic violence we've seen before, as if lifted from Screenwriter 101. Chloroform? Gas leak? Staged suicide? Medication replaced with placebo? Check, check, check, check. Céline's early test of Alice's house-to-house speed is the only clever device in a profoundly linear movie. 

Hathaway and Chastain, both squandered, do their best, and their glances and glares power the otherwise tonally inconsistent story forward. With the women at the helm, though, the omniscient narrative style of the movie had potential to be more arresting. As their warring heats up, alternating perspectives between them could have been powerful, sharing more motives with the audience than the newly-cold women do with one another. In Delhomme's actual finished product, meanwhile, we know so much about the scheming on both sides that there's no dramatic tension. When a dying character flickers their eyelids — maybe they'll make it! — we don't even really care what happens to them, but if we did, it's resolved immediately. 

All the perspective shifts and attempted claustrophobia of the houses and domestic drama frustratingly evoke 1944's Gaslight and its far more competent grasp of how to imbue fear in household quarrels. But instead, we get a good idea courtesy of France and a forgettable movie courtesy of Hollywood.