Midsommar ★½

What’s the point of ripping off great trash and presenting it as something semi-serious? You don’t honestly think you can febreeze the stink out of the air when all you are doing is blowing hot air out of your ass? So you’ve seen The Wickerman and you love cults but do nothing interesting, new, or subversive with the tropes and cliches. You trot them out and dress them up, hoping some perfect shot idiot is ready with their camera to screenshot what looks like a commercial if Urban Outfitters held Fyrefly Festival at IKEA. Give us a main character defined solely by grief and no other notion of autonomy and then drag them through the motions of emotional torture and then torch it all predictably to the ground. Wrap it tight in a smug and satisfied surface level sense of humor that does little but make us hate your one note victims even more. The holier than thou cult, who is untouchable by their plain weirdness and folk freakness. Like Toni Collette, Florence Pugh’s performance is effectively wasted. What exactly are we left with? A stale, pretentious, and unaffected work. I just don’t give a fuck.

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