I could watch the last 15 minutes of this movie on infinite loop.
Man, no one scrambles my Did-I-Like-This?-o-meter like Ari Aster. He plays with some high-octane emotions that I’m not fully sure he groks and seems dependent on his actresses’ talents to do the heavy lifting and make us believe he empathizes with the rawest of raw stuff. That’s a real problem when the whole dang movie is ostensibly about the process of sitting with and validating big, gross feelings (and, in Midsommar’s case, about how men especially struggle with that). (Or…