Midsommar

Heralding the inevitable sacrifice in Midsommar

Ari Aster's Midsommar has many of the strengths and weaknesses of his debut film, Hereditary. Aster combines a sure grasp of cinematographic framing and production design, as in his previous film, which serve to heighten a sense of dread and horror. Midsommar's plot is weak, a rehash of The Wicker Man set in a Swedish commune. Aster does wring a sense of dislocation and unease utilizing bright midsummer lighting and the sparkling white costumery of his cast. He gets more out of subtle undulations and diffusion techniques than Aronofsky did with his exertions in the similarly psychedelic Mother. 

Characterization, as in Hereditary, is a problem and Aster has a blander and less effective cast here. Florence Pugh is somewhat miscast, she is too substantial a screen presence to play a buffeted waif, but she and Vilheim Blomgren are the most watchable thesps onscreen. The supporting characters are all one note roles that exist to expand the body count and sense of trepidation. As in Hereditary, family trauma serves as a sawhorse to support the flimsy narrative. Aster's plot and characters are half baked, but his visuals are provocative. In an age where character and narrative development are best being investigated by television and streaming shows than can spend countless hours pursuing this direction, perhaps Aster's talents are best suited for what is left of cinema. Midsommar has traces of visual splendor and unconscious passion, if not coherence, to say the least. The apposite smile of Ms Pugh at the film's fiery conclusion, which signals a purgation of her trauma, makes me eager to see Mr. Aster's next effort.