In a world oversaturated by cheap jump scares and otherworldly horror, Ari Aster breathes new life into the genre with Midsommar. Ghosts and possession are replaced by grief and interpersonal struggles. I hesitate to call Midsommar a horror because it is so much more than that. If it does not transcend the genre of horror, then, at the very least, it redefines it.
The film is, at its very core, simple. Dani goes through a traumatic life event while dating Christian, a likely candidate for World’s Worst Boyfriend. Christian is planning to go on a trip with his friends to a Midsommar festival. Dani, after some very awkward social interactions, reluctantly joins them. What follows is an uncomfortable journey through cult-like rituals, ranging from ritual suicide to the nonconsensual consumption of bodily fluids. While it’s easy to write off a lot of the film as mere shock value, I assure you that the shocking elements are functional. Whether their function justifies their inclusion is another question and one we will explore.
Central to an understanding of Midsommar is an understanding of allegory. The film, as out-of-left-field as this sounds, is a fairy tale. A quick google search of what allegory entails will reveal to you that it’s normally a symbolic story with a moral at the end of it. If one analyzes Midsommar through this lens, then one will find that, in essence, it’s not about the scares or the tension but rather about grief. The different “scares” act as lessons and clever interpretations of grief and how we react to it. Other critics have further suggested that it’s also an analogy for a breakup and, while that is certainly present, I do not believe it to be the driving force of the film but rather one of the consequences of dealing with grief. Through this film, Aster explores how grief affects every avenue of our life and, while some examples are more obvious, others are dressed in the skin of a bear and set on fire.
The film is essentially divided into two sections: the first is centered around a darker winter setting, whereas the second is set in a bright summer setting. Do not, however, let this juxtaposition mislead you. While these sections are symbolic, Aster certainly attempts to subvert the expectations that the “dark” is negative and the “light” is positive. That would be an oversimplification of Aster’s attempt to express the journey of grief through a visual medium. What one rather finds is that the stark contrast between the daylight and the horrific scenes that unfold is often more jarring than it would have been if Aster stuck to the underlit norm of modern horror films. Aster doesn’t do this to simply be different or for shock value alone. This choice of lighting functions as a means of visually engaging with the themes he explores: Midsommar is, at its very core, an analogy for grief. The brightness captures that far better than the darkness ever will. The light does not allow for anything to hide or be unexpected. Much like grief, it highlights the worst experiences and, unlike most horror, it is not the unknown that we should fear but exactly its opposite. Our reality and the knowledge that we can’t escape our circumstances is far scarier than possessed children or axe-wielding white men with mommy issues… well, maybe.
In order to fully emerge you in this world, Aster uses limited to no non-diegetic sound. Instead, he leans heavily on the diegetic sound, like the rhythmic chanting found throughout the film. The sound is expertly mixed and careful attention has been paid to the swaying of trees and the crunching of bones. Aster knows the importance of sound when it comes to selling a world. He also manages to fill the spaces in between with a silence that captures reality better than any noise ever will. It is in that space where he both builds his tension and “sells” this dreamlike world as real. The silence is often the one thing that keeps us tethered to the reality of what we are viewing, as it allows for your own thoughts to wander and process what you are seeing. This allows for the film to become more than that; it is no longer simply something you are seeing but rather it becomes something you are experiencing.
Visually, the film is stunning. The small town is engulfed in an evergreen surrounding. The continuous daylight, along with this seemingly never-ending greenery, is very disorienting and you as a viewer feel just as anxious as Dani. All of this is naturally very intentional and acts as a means of capturing the feeling of disorientation produced by grief and loss. The surrounding nature also suggests Aster’s stance that what occurs in this space is rooted in our base nature. The way in which Dani deals with her grief is seemingly the “natural” way of doing it. I, too, believe that traveling to foreign countries, getting indoctrinated by crazy cults and being fed unknown substances are the “natural” ways of dealing with loss.
Another notable aspect of the film is the costume design. It is another avenue which Aster uses to explore Dani’s odyssey of grief. When she arrives in the small town her clothes are “Western” and the colours are muted. Their fit and shape show a person lost in grief: they’re slumpy, frumpy and always look post-nap. As the film progresses there is a shift, one scene, notably the first time she is separated from Christian, sees her don a white apron. White is often associated with an image of purity, however, in this case, it’s not sexual purity but rather purity of feeling. The “white” does not stop there, however, as she eventually changes into traditional Midsommar garbs. This growing “purity” can be seen as a move from the “Western” ideals of dealing with grief to a more natural and central position. This shift, however, goes further, as it then gradually moves along the spectrum to the other extreme. The white clothing is inlayed with a floral pattern which is, by the end of the film, replaced by your-mom’s-garden couture. This, again, symbolizes a more natural approach to grief. One finds that, while at the beginning of the film, she is consumed by the restrictive means of dealing with grief, by the end she is visually consumed by this new approach. The film also has strong ties to pagan symbols and, while there are numerous examples throughout the film, the most notable, I believe are the “Raido” and “Dagaz” ruins sewn onto Dani’s clothes in the fashion of Superman’s S. These easily missed visual cues represent “a journey” and “awakening” respectively and, while I would love to explore the implications of this to the journey of grief, I worry that I might wander too far into the spoiler territory.
Midsommar is an incredibly rewarding film and I have only scratched the surface of pandora’s box. The film is rife with meaning, and I believe that there is an avenue of exploration for anyone brave enough. Whether you want a thoughtful exploration of grief, a close analysis of cult psychology or a manual on how to be the world’s worst boyfriend then this is the film for you. Sensitive watchers beware, but not to such an extent that you let an amazing film pass you by.
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