Midsommar

Kristina Guckenberger: On its surface, Midsommar is a folk horror flick, set to utopian wildflower backdrops and quirky Scandinavian customs gone awry. If we strip all that away, however, I’d argue that it’s also a black comedy breakup film.

It features Dani (Florence Pugh, Fighting With My Family), a grad student who experiences an unimaginable family trauma and is struggling to cope with its aftermath. In an effort to quell her painful memories, she essentially invites herself on a vacation to northern Sweden with her shitty boyfriend Christian (Jack Reynor, Sing Street) and his shitty anthropology student friends. They travel thousands of miles so the classmates can study the titular pagan solstice festival’s practices and cultural impacts for their theses. In the words of Adam Driver’s character in The Dead Don’t Die, “This isn’t going to end well.”

Ali McGhee: I want to start by saying that this is a gorgeous, sumptuous film. Visually, it’s extraordinary. I was kind of obsessed with the immense detail and clear thought put into every single shot, and the setting is so beautiful it’s almost Edenic. For me, that contrasted effectively with the incredibly dark narrative and the shocking special effects.

KG: I couldn’t agree more. The visuals are absolutely stunning. From the sweeping overhead shots of immaculately decorated tables and gorgeous pastoral landscapes to the gripping, intimate zoom-ins on the characters as they grapple with pure terror — writer/director Ari Aster and his Hereditary cinematographer Pawel Pogorzelski have created a world of their own.. The blues, yellows, greens and whites — there’s a blinding pastel haziness that washes over the film and never lets up. The midnight sun is depicted as this central, supernatural, sacred gift, but its ruthlessness conveys an ever-present sense of dread that viewers are unable to deny. Midsommar presents a type of sun-bleached internal haunting unlike anything I’ve ever seen or felt.

AM: More on the visuals — this film has an hallucinatory, visionary aesthetic to me. It reminds me much more of the films of Alejandro Jodorowsky — particularly The Holy Mountain, where the characters are on a visionary quest — than other horror movies. (I wonder if the similarities are deliberate.) There’s so much hallucination — both literal and metaphorical — in this film, and it’s such a key part of the plot. The idea of the “bad trip” is important, too. The human brain is the wildest, craziest and potentially most horrific thing on earth. No supernatural “monsters” are needed in this movie.

KG: Exactly. Aster’s extensive use of soft focus makes the setting feel whimsical and airy, like a magical drug-induced fever dream. It posits that wildly horrific things can happen during the sunniest settings, among the most joyous people because there’s another invisible factor at play — psychic pain. Midsommar argues that our own emotional baggage might actually be the scariest demon of all. It forces us to question our reality and our relationship to that reality.

I think that’s why the drug trips are such an effective device here. These characters are physically unable to trust their surroundings and, in turn, themselves. We watch as Dani sees roots growing between her feet and fingertips, and feel her unsteady breath as she studies the pulsating flower buds. The visual distortion mirrors her and her fellow travelers’ internal distrust, and they’re unable to decipher what’s real and what isn’t, which makes them completely vulnerable, even in broad daylight.

AM: I’d definitely classify this as horror, but also dark fantasy. The world created for this film is so outside of “default reality” and so intertwined with the natural world that at times it feels like a fairy tale. I even thought about the Land of Faerie at one point, where the beings there are neither beneficent nor malevolent but truly other, and very much tricksters who are amoral rather than immoral. And there are all kinds of warnings for humans who accidentally or purposefully enter Faerie — e.g., don’t eat the food, don’t get seduced, don’t make bargains. Even though nothing in Midsommar is actually supernatural, it’s all tinged with this kind of fey magic.

I really enjoy the conflict between Christian and Josh (William Jackson Harper, NBC’s “The Good Place”) about who got to do the research and write the thesis on the village and its practices. It shows the inherent selfishness of a Western, capitalist- and consumerist-based society, and the inheritance of a colonialist worldview. Like, which one of these young scholars gets to “discover” this place for the rest of the world?

I also love the moments where the cultural practices of this cult resonate and make some sense. The film does a great job of exposing the many places where consumerism falls short. Because something is so rotten within our culture, this strange world makes sense even as atrocities pile up.

KG: I agree. Viewers are fed a steady diet of logistical justifications for these barbaric actions throughout the film with little pushback. I think the literal lightness and brightness of the film adds a keen sense of reality to the violent rituals in a way that feels genuinely believable. The hellish underbelly of this picturesque festival is displayed in broad daylight, and somehow this choice makes the whole ordeal feel logical — inevitable, even. It’s as if this is the way things have always been meant to be: out in the open, unashamed and unapologetic.

I found myself feeling less shocked by the actual outcomes of each action and much more unnerved by the motives behind them. I wanted to know more about the rituals, more about this clandestine Swedish society as a whole and how they continued to maintain their humanity amid these horrors. It evokes questions of humanity, morality and Western attitudes in a way that feels fresh and interesting.

AM: The depiction of the main relationship between Christian and Dani is similarly scrutinized. It’s so shallow, so much a shadow of what a partnership should be, and she has such an issue asserting her own needs that we’re rooting for him to get what’s coming to him. And I think the film points at the lack of meaning in our society, the disposable way that relationships are treated, as another reason she ends up choosing another path (with its own serious issues!).

KG: Their relationship is worth delving into because it’s so relatable — most of us have felt compelled to stay in a deteriorating relationship at one point or another because there’s a sense of security and societal expectation to them. Dani’s and Christian’s relationship is toxic, hollow and co-dependent at best. They both know it but feel too trapped to do anything about it. Christian’s passive partnership is nothing short of obligatory — he’s unable and unwilling to understand Dani’s trauma.

There’s a scene in which she explains the difference between apologizing and meaning it, and saying you’re sorry and actually meaning “Too bad.” That scene feels wholly indicative of their dynamic: He’s patronizing while she’s apologetic. He’s going through the motions with such indifference that it facilitates a justifiable sense of vengefulness toward him. We don’t want to see him prevail even though he’s seemingly on the same side as Dani. It’s a fascinating comment on the breakdown of relationships.

AM: Here’s a fun one: Can we read this as a feminist film? Paganism is often linked to women, sometimes (especially in horror) very problematically. What do you think about that link here?

KG: Without giving too much away, I certainly think the events that transpire throughout the course of the film combined with its sadistically climactic end can certainly be read as a feminist tale (of triumph). Dani is constantly gaslit by her supremely douchey boyfriend and his apathetic friends from the onset, which sets up an us vs. them dynamic that I found captivating. Even after kind of, sort of inviting herself to their Swedish boys trip (masquerading as an academic pursuit), she still appears to be on the outside of the group. She’s othered within them — an interloper within her own group of friends. The film explores the ramifications of toxic masculinity in not so subtle ways that I thoroughly enjoyed.

As far as Pagan rituals go, I don’t know much but I can certainly recognize Midsommar’s emphasis on female bodies, sexuality and status within the commune. The women are revered, celebrated and even crowned — there’s a respect for womanhood and female agency that feels altogether lacking in our culture. It’s strange to think about personal agency within the confines of a Swedish death cult, but here I am!

AM: As *ahem* someone said in the audience, it was predictable — in the sense that you know from the beginning that this is going to end badly. And if anyone has seen The Wicker Man (1973), we’re prepared for what’s coming. And, honestly, The Wicker Man, and of course Hereditary, and maybe The Ritual (2017) and The Witch (2015), are kind of the only horror movies I can think of that are remotely like this one. It’s really breaking new ground. I thought that the inevitable ending was much less important than how the film unfolds and the particular, nuanced way the characters respond to the situation. I especially love Dani’s character arc.

KG: As a newbie just delving into the genre, I’m really interested in the intersection of psychological trauma and horror. It feels like a more digestible starting point for those of us who aren’t so readily into the shock and gore of the most notable horror films. What Aster did so masterfully with Hereditary was to bring this intersection to the forefront in a way that felt organic and fascinating. His direction evokes discussions of mental illness, generational trauma and the lives we construct in the wake of these wounds in a way that feels unique. He uses this angle once again to delve into the open wounds of Midsommar — only this time, it’s in bright, blinding daylight. As our resident horror buff, did you find the film’s backstory provocative enough to feel satisfied?

AM: I am so glad you brought this up. I think Aster centralizes trauma — and specifically trauma at the family level — effectively, chillingly and very differently in both of his films. In Hereditary, the characters are rarely outside the family unit, so we witness that disintegration from the beginning and from this horrifyingly intimate place. We’re in the house, and other familiar places — the school, the community — the entire time.

In Midsommar, an initial trauma sets the plot in motion, then haunts the rest of the movie, becoming the uncanny event that ruptures and influences the narrative at key points. If Aster and the cast hadn’t handled it perfectly, it would have been ineffective. I think that simply dropping us all into the backstory rather than taking time to set it up was a great choice — it immediately sets the film’s relentless tone and provides some compelling detail as to why Dani’s story unfolds the way it eventually does.

KG: I’d like to explore Dani’s story a bit more, especially her grief. We see her unrelenting despair expressed physically, in the form of extreme close-ups and wailing screams so guttural you can feel them echo in your chest. We also see her grief portrayed psychologically, as isolation, both among her friend group and within herself. She’s constantly making herself smaller, more palatable — always careful to not ruffle feathers for fear of being seen as a difficult, hysterical woman. I identified with this social conditioning so strongly, especially given our current divisive cultural landscape. Did you connect with Dani’s particularly female isolation as well?

AM: That really resonated for me. I think women have been conditioned to be small, to apologize when it’s not their fault, to be peacemakers and sex goddesses and vessels. It often takes something major to break us out of that conditioning. This trope of the wailing woman has become taboo because it’s powerful — this kind of palpable grief that makes people uncomfortable because it’s so raw. And we get to experience so much of her grief in this film, and the issues that bubble up because she has no adequate channel to release it. The way this community shares grief, and its very public and ritualized expression, was actually very attractive to me.

KG: I think it’s also important to note that Midsommar is not actually a “scary movie.” It’s terrifyingly creepy and nothing short of traumatic, but those looking to jump out of their seats will be left wanting. Instead of the glaringly graphic moments depicted in Hereditary, this film is laced with a consistent undercurrent of slow-burning dread. It trades shadow-ridden shock value for simmering uneasiness and — surprisingly — strange humor. Were you taken aback with the amount of comedic relief in the film, given Aster’s deadly serious feature debut?

AM: I love the humor and adore when horror and comedy can come together so deftly. There is absolutely a relationship between them, but most of the time one is sliding into the other in a kind of careless way. Looking at the ridiculous, darkly funny moments provides a rich lens for the film. That being said, I did find the movie’s opening scenes truly terrifying. And I love the full-on embrace of gore and the grotesque. Horror is supposed to be transgressive and forbidden. If it isn’t, it’s not quite doing its job.

KG: My only gripe, and why I’m giving it 4.5 stars instead of 5: I loved the persistent nail-biting aspect of Hereditary and didn’t get that as much in Midsommar. I felt uneasy but ultimately secure watching it. I wanted to be scared more than I was. I don’t think it fully delivered on the fright front, but now that I know what to expect, I really respect what it’s attempting to do. There’s so much tension and visual foreshadowing in the tone and set dressing that it was enough to completely occupy my attention and ultimately quell my need to be frightened. Also, is it weird to say that Midsommar might be the most beautiful horror film I’ve ever seen?

AM: The original Suspiria (1977) was my No. 1, but I think this 5-star challenger just slid into the top spot.