Jellyfish Eyes

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Midsommar

Spoiler alert.

Extreme tragedy strikes, and a young student is torn asunder (Florence Pugh as Dani).

In her hour of need, her partner steps up (Jack Reynor as Christian), providing dependable loving care, even though things would have ended otherwise.

A trip.

A vacation.

A friend invites them and others to visit the Swedish community that reared him (Vilhelm Blomgren as Pelle), an anthropological opportunity adored and beckoning, a remote adventure which seems harmless enough.

They gather and set off, unsuspicious and unaware.

They're greeted with somnambulistic sustenance, and proceed in the interests of friendship.

Yet something's not quite right as they settle in to total isolation, and strange rituals harrowingly bewilder, with no explanations genuinely forthcoming.

Nausea.

Disappearances.

Pure utter terror.

Ari Aster's Midsommar cultivates occultist acculturation, as realistic as one two three.

It's the best horror film I've seen in years, in the same league as The Exorcist or The Omen.

Better even.

I don't even really watch horror films anymore, unless it's Halloween, and never thought it would impress so monstrously.

It maintains an innocent carefree aesthetic throughout, as it slowly matriculates ubiquitous discretion.

Alternative ideas guide the insulated community.

The magnitude of the shock is too severe for outsiders, and even though things don't make sense, nothing is done to countermand or break free.

Thus, rather than spending time and effort presenting a failed escape followed by woeful incarceration, Midsommar's characters incredulously stay put, awaiting what can't possibly be, in confused awestruck senseless immersion.

There's no heroes, no heroics.

No passion. No universal code.

An ancient offbeat strictly orthodox idiosyncrasy has wickedly endured, as manifold perspectives would likely view it, and it recruits new members with neither pretence nor precaution, convinced that once they arrive, they'll never be able to set themselves free.

Even if they aren't kept waiting long.

The realism haunts you afterward since it's difficult to quickly dismiss, it isn't improbable or ridiculous or insane, it's more like vibrant documentary fiction, highlighting novelty's dark side.

Proceed with caution.

Perhaps view with a friend.

Freedoms require limitations.

Through limitations, set yourself free.

😌

The Master

His personality trailing behind, obliviously, inquisitively and contendedly basking in the wake, quietly lounging in his own residual perpetual motion, with a sun he fails to see warmly beating down on his inebriated candour, Freddie Quell's (Joaquin Phoenix) proclivities for the peculiar lead to transformative miscues while the narrative which he inhabits, Paul Thomas Anderson's The Master, derisively lambastes its own nostalgic attachment to film's longing for nostalgic attachments (through its initial choice of music).

Mr. Quell's sense of buoyancy has been quasi-permanently kept afloat due to his wartime experience, as has his creative knack for improvisationally concocting alcoholic beverages.

He also seeks partnership.

Fortunately, he stows away on a ship by chance which has been rented by a carefree spirit (Philip Seymour Hoffman as Lancaster Dodd) and his followers, many of whom share his desire to circumvent sobriety.

They have taken things one step further, though, having devotedly conjured a flexible theoretical fundamental foundation, whose profits have secured a fantastic incorruptibility.

As these two tinkerers intersect, pseudoestablished faith-based charlatanism attempts to absorb obstinate itinerant (restrained, undirected, generally harmless) epicurean anarchy through a series of mind tricks, the confident modest inclusive yet principled performance expertly executed by Mr. Hoffman in their first obligatory interaction sophisticatedly counterbalanced by Joaquin Phoenix's focused resistant exactitude.

As Freddie is lured in, the film's structure attempts to grab hold of its audience's recalcitrance and transfer it deep within its hallucinatory consciousness, as if it's relying on the sheer conviction of its form alone, regardless of what form it takes, to transcribe potential transgressions of the post-modern through personal investments of hesitant, guilt-ridden trust, incipiently causing a cult to appear happy-go-lucky, and attempting to internally harness a distilled independent rationality.

The best American film I've seen so far this year.

Amy Adams puts in a great performance too.