Midsommar

Midsommar

Completely pointless. Aster is a provocateur—and not a particularly talented one either—whose directing schema has not changed whatsoever since The Strange Thing About the Johnsons and Munchausen, two wretched shorts, equal parts juvenile and grotesque, both playing into the same old schtick—to take something traditional, such as a familial relationship, and pervert it—for no other reason than to shock. Empty provocations, and nothing else.

One could give Aster a bit of leeway if he at least had something (hell, anything!) to say—but he, of course, does not. With Midsommar, a bloated whale of a film, blown up to an interminable two and a half hours, despite being about literally nothing, Aster unintentionally makes the strongest argument yet for why the "Prestige Horror"/"Elevated Horror" movement (a rare instance when the phrase "emperor's new clothes" is actually apt) is a complete and utter joke. Horror sits in a very sad place right now, so I hope the genre regains its footing soon; otherwise, another decade of crap like Midsommar will surely be the end of me. 

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