Oscar season. I have learned to accept the inevitable disappointment of “Oscar buzzy” movies. My refusal to watch “The Revenant” remains a crowning achievement in following my gut instincts. I did make it through 12 minutes of “The Irishman” before calling it the “glorification of abusive men,” which I count as progress. Suffice it to say any movie title that starts with “The” was a) made by a man b) about a man c) did not need to be made.
However, 2019 was a pretty good year. I am rooting for “Parasite” (no “The” in the title) and I enjoyed “1917” (also no “The” in the title). “The Two Popes” is actually worthy of a “The.” I got through “A Marriage Story” but, seriously, if I want to watch actors engage in histrionic screaming matches I will just go back to my Meisner acting class (#standupjoke #yourewelcome). I thought maybe I just didn’t know how to enjoy movies anymore, outside of mindless pleasure. That is, until I saw “Midsommar.” (Now available on Amazon Prime)
First of all, do not, under any circumstance, begin this film at 11:00 PM at night, like I did. Especially, after a few work-sponsored cocktails with jalapeño vodka. Also, understand, this movie is like the acupuncture needle that goes straight to the nerve of fear of abandonment, loss, and creepy white people. It’s not “Friday the 13th” scary, more like New Age meets Jonestown creepy. But having ingested almost every piece of post-apocalyptic culture created for book or screen, nothing in this movie surprised me. Kind accommodating white people with a new age-y vibe? Of course they are a murderous cult! What I loved about “Midsommar” went way beyond the obvious horror, thriller cliches. What really hit me in the gut was not the foot sticking out of the garden, but the way the movie called out how the vacuous black hole of spiritual and emotional vacancy in American society could drive one to join a cult. What really hit me, was how Ari Aster, the filmmaker, totally got my own personal gut wrenching grief and primal need for, well, my own creepy cult. Still have not found it, but I did enjoy the movie. Spoilers to follow.
I can’t unpack all of “Midsommar.” Here and here are some good places to try to make sense of this twisted, yet strangely accurate, horror/break-up movie. In a nutshell, the main character, Dani, played by Florence Pugh, loses her family, but tries to manage her grief, to not burden her boyfriend with her emotional baggage because, you know, he’s got a dissertation to write and death is such a bummer. She internalizes her grief and experiences her own inner-horror shows, until she meets the Hårga, a White Person Cult (is there any other kind?) who have an endless assortment of rituals for their Midsommer festival. Her American travel companions, painted as different flavors of douchiness, slowly disappear, while her boyfriend becomes an involuntary sperm donor, and she wins the title of May Queen. She volunteers her boyfriend as the final human sacrifice and he burns barn in a bear suit. You know, normal stuff.
The story is more than my blog, or anyone, can handle. But in one scene, after discovering that her boyfriend has become the fuck boy for a group sex implantation ceremony, Dani collapses in grief. At which point, her new cult family friends surround her and mirror her grief in a pivotal moment that really seals the deal. I mean, who doesn’t dream of a drawn out primal scream with a dozen sister wives? Of course, she chooses the creepy people, they provide her the emotional support so badly lacking in American culture.
Unlike any other Oscar nominated movie, including “Parasite,” which I loved, I couldn’t stop thinking about “Midsommar” the next day. Why are emotions, especially grief, so taboo? Why don’t we have more rituals? I mean, besides drinking and eating in front of a football game. The Hårga are not dead inside, they just sacrifice 9 people every so often.
