Midsommar: Beauty and Dread

Midsommar is probably the best movie I saw all summer. It is best to go into this horror masterpiece blind, so I will try to avoid revealing spoilers. 

The director, Ari Aster, is able to immerse the viewer into any scenario no matter how whimsical or over the top because of his strong cinematography. Every shot is beautifully composed to convey a distinct sense of dread not present in many mainstream horror movies. 

A simple scene at the beginning of the movie functions as exposition as a group of characters have a conversation in the living room. A shot-reverse-shot composition would be the typical way to present this scene, in which the camera follows each character as they are speaking. Midsommar normally utilizes this shot composition however this scene, instead of shifting perspectives, the camera is directed onto the couch of characters talking, and a mirror is conveniently placed above the couch. As a new character enters the living room and begins to interact with the other characters, the camera doesn’t shift to the direction of the new character. Instead, her reflection in the already established mirror is all the viewer is given in regarding her subtle presence. This scene is unique in that it subconsciously makes the viewer remember the exposition in conjunction. 

This scene is an example of the purposeful cinematography in Midsommar, as this simple subversion of a typical shot composition established the dichotomy the individual in the reflection has with the people on the couch. This way, the viewer not only gains exposition naturally but is given the pieces of the world they are being thrown into. 

Midsommar is also amazing in regards to making the audience feel dread. In a conventional western horror movie, the jump scare is used to give the viewer a pay off for suspense. In a way, this conformation of anxiety conveys the idea that the viewer should continue to be tense while watching. Midsommar disregards this dependence of visual payoffs of tension, and instead, the film relies on world-building. The world Aster presents is initially presented as a friendly sanctuary with seemingly comical quirks. As the viewer learns about the severity of each quirk within the world the characters inhabit, they lose the sense of comfort the world implies they should have. And the audience begins to sympathize with characters who initially seemed irrational. This mental plight the viewer has as they try to grasp something they try to understand leads to them relating to the protagonist who is dealing with similar dilemmas.

The real horror of Midsommar doesn’t come from the gore or the scenes that confirm your dreaded suspicions of a mad world. Rather, it comes from your subconscious agreement with the ending. You begin to question if your act of being content makes you mad, and the psychological battle that Midsommar postulates is why it is so terrifyingly beautiful.