(83) If Hereditary was an exercise in stuffing Ari Aster’s fetishes into a mainstream movie package, Midsommar drops the pretense altogether. Sights and sounds both grisly and gorgeous tumble onto the screen in a dizzying, often nauseating, fashion. Aster is an artist unhindered here, pulling the audience down an inevitable descent with a shifting tripolar perspective – torn between fascination, obsession, and disgust. That march towards a forgone conclusion means that Midsommar surprises less than Hereditary, yet its reverberations remain in the sunrises that follow.
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