Ari Aster
Midsommar

Summer, as we know, is the season for horror movies. The summer lethargy is broken by blood and screams and fear - there's a sociological reason for this, I seem to have read in some article years ago. But in any case, in recent years, the horror genre has changed: of course, splatter films still exist, as well as sequels to other successful horror movies, and even more extreme and borderline examples, but a handful of titles have been added to these that have gained international fame, even in more 'highbrow' circuits than those usually reserved for genre films.

The latest example is Midsommar, directed by Ari Aster, released last July in US theaters and shortly afterwards in Italy. Aster is already famous for directing Hereditary, another critically acclaimed horror film, from which a good dose of anticipation and publicity for his latest work derives. In Midsommar, we have a plot that's certainly already seen: a group of friends on vacation in a remote and isolated village, where disturbing episodes soon begin to occur. However, these are not paranormal phenomena; on the contrary, it's the human beings who take the lead.

"Midsommar - The Village of the Damned," reads the Italian translation: well, they’re not damned at all, at least not in the literal sense of the term. The inhabitants of Harva, a commune in the Hälsingland region, north of Stockholm, live in a bucolic and unspoiled environment, honoring ancient traditions and rituals, and they celebrate the midsummer festival, Midsommar, in May, which, however, once every ninety years, is a grand, unique festival, accompanied by sacred celebrations. One of the boys originally from the commune, but now studying in the United States, invites his friends to attend. The four friends thus set off for Sweden, along with Dani, the girlfriend of one of them, who has recently suffered a family tragedy that is perhaps the only reason their relationship continues. Upon approaching the local community, they immediately witness the deep sense of belonging of a community that seems at the same time closed and open: the openness is sometimes dictated by practical reasons, such as preventing incest. In the community, the life cycle is seen as the succession of the seasons: spring until 18 years, summer until 36, autumn until 54, winter until 72. "What happens at 72?" Dani asks, and the evasive joke she receives in response foreshadows an unsettling, possible solution. The celebrations unfold in a crescendo of horror and wonder, which engulfs and annihilates the external participants. In the end, some elements seem to be drawn from genre plots, with some clichés repeating. But after all, it is always so: everything we see is ultimately already seen, or imaginable, except in a few, precious cases. Midsommar is not one of these, in my opinion, but its visual power and stylistic elegance confirm it as an above-average horror (which is also, then, a label that can sometimes be limiting).