We've
all been there. The moment when you know it's over. When your
significant other looks at you in a way that instills fear, anger, and
hopelessness. Reckless decisions follow in an almost fugue state of
survival instincts blended with base desire, revenge fantasies, and endless
"what if" scenarios. If the essence of this reality could be
instilled with neo-pagan, broad daylight terror and bottled with a crystalized
form of pitch-black humor, the result would be Ari Aster's sophomore effort, Midsommar.
Featuring enigmatic visuals, a harrowing central performance, and Aster's
ominous attention to detail, this is one of the defining horror films of the
century.
Dani
and Christian are on the rocks, when tragedy strikes, forcing their
relationship to continue in a state of near death. Christian invites Dani
to travel with him and a trio of friends to a mysterious commune in Sweden
where bizarre rites and unspeakable oaths threaten to undo Dani's fragile
psyche permanently. Patiently building upon a profane foundation of
horror and comedy ancestors, Aster slowly creates an organic prison of despair
around his principals. Unhealthy relationships and messy break ups are
whirlwinds of excess: anger, sex, resentment, pain, and hope congeal into a
quagmire of self-doubt and loathing that some are never able to extricate
themselves from. This is mimicked in a searing allegory that plays out in
a commune of cultist druids. One of the most awe inducing aspects of the
picture is in how meticulously researched it was. There are mythological
and occult trappings, dangerous iconography, and uncomfortable incantations
strewn about under the context of Dani and Christian's disintegrating
relationship as a means to simulate the stages of grief in real
time.
This
is made by possible by yet another unforgettable performance by Florence
Pugh. Her anguish is palpable from the first frame and watching her
devolution is a thing of horrific beauty. In scene after scene, Pugh
exposes herself to trauma, regroups, and then re-shatters, a remarkable
simulation of mental illness and profound bereavement, two uncomfortable truths
often ignored in the light of day, and yet they are inescapable in Aster's
bright white open-air asylum for the wronged. Jack Reynor gives an
outstanding supporting turn as Dani's gaslighting boyfriend. The genius
of his portrayal is how close Reynor sticks to the middle, never fully going to
villain or hero. In the end, his Christian is simply a bad partner and it
is this revelation that forces the viewer to confront their personal ethos upon
the absolutely perfect finale.
The
most important character is the cult itself. One of the most brilliant
narrative decisions is in how the group is portrayed. There are potent
clues laced throughout the first act, both in dialogue and esoteric artwork,
but the design is clear: Community, be it with others who have experienced
trauma, close friends, or family are how one heals the scars of life. The
most powerful scene in the film involves mutual screaming, ritualizing the
concept of a support group with disquieting results. Pugh's physicality,
particularly during the final act melds with these ideas, as her crucibles,
both personal and present, collide in a haze of fire and acceptance.
This is the core of the story. Healing is an agonizing process,
filled with regret and heartbreak. Coming through to the other side is
not guaranteed, yet those who succeed find themselves tempered by their
ordeal. Forgiving one's self and letting go of resentment are salubrious
miracles, hidden underneath oceans of grief.
Pawel
Pogorzelski's ethereal cinematography instills a sense of dread that builds
throughout. Early shots invoke German expressionism, with strange angles
and deep shadows dominating the introduction to ensure the viewer knows
something is amiss. However, as the story transitions to nature, everything
is dominated with wide, naturally lit shots and open spaces, reminding the
viewer and the characters that there is nowhere to hide. Everything is
presented with astute production design, packing every frame with clues and
riddles to solve. This is a dense, slow burn thriller that is not
easily defined. It demands patience from its viewers, has startling conclusions,
and features several laugh out loud segments, including a Tom Ford inspired
climax that stays in the mind’s eye long after the credits have rolled.
Aster juxtaposes nudity and vulnerable with certain archetypes to reinforce
notions of female empowerment and personal growth and the result is runic
perfection.
Now
playing in theaters with a NC-17 director's cut on the way, Midsommar is
another masterwork from one of the definitive horror directors of the
century. An absolute endurance test of weird, wondrous, and appalling
visuals, this is an essential film in the genre. While its influences are
clear from the start, the journey is of import, with the final destination
being something vastly different and unexpected: A story about walking away
from the things that hurt us and the power of loving oneself.
--Kyle
Jonathan