In the endless Swedish sun, grief finds its most vivid grave, where rituals bloom in blood and petals.

Ari Aster’s Midsommar (2019) shatters the conventions of horror by dragging its terrors into broad daylight, transforming a picturesque commune into a canvas of psychological unraveling and folkloric frenzy. This film, with its hypnotic visuals and unflinching gaze on human fragility, invites viewers to question the boundaries between mourning, madness, and communal ecstasy.

  • How Midsommar weaponises sunlight to amplify dread, subverting nocturnal horror tropes.
  • The intricate tapestry of Swedish pagan rituals reimagined as a mirror to personal and relational decay.
  • Florence Pugh’s transformative performance as the epicentre of cathartic horror.

Sunlit Sorrows: Redefining Horror in Perpetual Day

The Radiant Descent into Despair

Dani Ardor arrives at the remote Hälladög commune not as a tourist, but as a shattered soul trailing the wreckage of familial tragedy. Her sister’s suicide-murder of their parents has left her grasping at the frayed threads of sanity, her boyfriend Christian only half-heartedly anchoring her. As the group—Christian, his academic friends Josh, Mark, and Simon, plus Pelle, their Swedish host—journeys to this idyllic village for a midsummer festival held once every ninety years, the perpetual daylight strips away the comforting veil of night. Aster crafts an opening sequence of raw grief, intercut with home videos of familial bliss, establishing Dani’s vulnerability before thrusting her into a world where light exposes every fracture. The film’s synopsis unfolds like a fever dream: initial welcomes with flower-crowned revellers give way to subtle omens—a dishevelled man with runes carved into his flesh, an elderly woman’s ceremonial cliff plunge framed as communal honour. What begins as anthropological curiosity spirals into entrapment, with outsiders culled through rigged rituals that blend beauty and brutality. Christian’s infidelity with Maja, a commune girl, parallels Dani’s growing entanglement with the group’s elders, culminating in the film’s infamous bear-suited climax. This narrative, clocking in at over two and a half hours, luxuriates in its pacing, allowing unease to fester under azure skies.

The genius of this setup lies in its inversion of horror’s shadows. Cinematographer Pawel Pogorzelski employs wide-angle lenses and high-key lighting to make the commune a hyper-real paradise, where floral wreaths conceal severed limbs and maypole dances mask sacrificial intent. Aster draws from European folk horror traditions, echoing the pagan undercurrents in films like The Wicker Man (1973), but bathes them in summer radiance. Dani’s arc, from pill-popping isolation to queenly embrace of the cult, probes the allure of surrender amid personal apocalypse. Christian’s oblivious arrogance, rooted in American entitlement, positions him as the ultimate sacrifice, his pleas drowned in floral symphonies.

Folkloric Flowers of Flesh and Frenzy

At its core, Midsommar dissects the seductive pull of communal belonging against individual alienation. The Hälladög rituals, inspired by actual Scandinavian midsummer customs yet grotesquely amplified, serve as metaphors for grief’s transformative fire. The Ättestupa, where elders leap to their deaths amid cheers, reframes suicide as sacred release—a twisted balm for Dani’s wounds. Aster consulted Swedish ethnographers and folklorists, weaving authentic elements like the maypole and rune divination into a tapestry of invention. These sequences pulse with choreographed horror: bodies twisted in mid-air, blood staining white dresses, all under a merciless sun that renders gore almost painterly.

Class and cultural clashes underpin the terror. The American interlopers, armed with cameras and theses, treat the commune as a field trip, blind to its sovereignty. Pelle’s gentle manipulation highlights this: as the lone insider, he lures his friends with promises of healing, mirroring Dani’s need for family. The film’s sex ritual, where Christian is dosed with fertility aids and Maja crowned in flowers, juxtaposes primal ecstasy with his detachment, underscoring toxic masculinity’s downfall. Themes of reproductive coercion emerge subtly, with the commune’s eugenic underbelly—pairing outsiders via drawings—evoking historical forced unions in isolated sects.

Gender dynamics bloom vividly. Women dominate the visual and ritual spheres: flower-clad maidens orchestrate the dances, elders prophesy through sex magic, and Dani ascends as May Queen. This matriarchal inversion challenges patriarchal norms, yet critiques blind faith in collectives. Aster’s script, honed through multiple drafts, layers these with psychological realism; Dani’s breakdown during the final feast, screaming amid smiles, captures the exquisite pain of ambiguous liberation.

Primal Screams Under the Midnight Sun

Florence Pugh’s portrayal of Dani anchors the film’s emotional maelstrom. Her guttural wails in the opening and climactic scenes transcend acting into visceral embodiment, earning her a breakout status. Pugh inhabits Dani’s evolution from timid mourner to ecstatic initiate, her face a kaleidoscope of terror and rapture. Key scenes, like the wailing ceremony where she matches the commune’s collective grief, showcase her physical commitment—sweat-slicked, flower-entwined, collapsing into catharsis.

Supporting turns amplify this: Jack Reynor’s Christian embodies callow self-absorption, his awkward rutting in the temple a humiliating spectacle. William Jackson Harper’s Josh, obsessed with the sacred texts, meets a gruesome academic end, head bashed by an unseen intruder. The ensemble’s chemistry, forged in Iceland’s standing sets mimicking Swedish architecture, lends authenticity to the escalating absurdity.

Cinematography’s Cruel Clarity

Pogorzelski’s work deserves its own altar. Shooting in 35mm with custom filters, he captures the sun’s glare as a malevolent force, bleaching colours to ethereal pastels while shadows pool like blood. Symmetrical compositions frame rituals as Renaissance tableaux: the cliff divers haloed in light, the bear procession a grotesque parade. Aster’s use of extreme slow-motion during dances elongates horror, turning folk steps into nightmarish ballets. Sound design complements this—Gustav Åhr’s haunting score blends pastoral flutes with dissonant drones, while diegetic hums from the commune evoke a hive mind.

Practical effects ground the film’s flights of fancy. The cliff falls employed stunt performers and clever editing; the post-coital leg wound on Simon uses silicone prosthetics for visceral decay. The finale’s temple inferno, with a real bear suit amid pyre, pushed budgetary limits, funded by A24’s bold investment post-Hereditary.

Grief’s Communal Crucible

Aster mines trauma’s depths, positioning Midsommar as a companion to Hereditary‘s domestic hell. Dani’s arc reflects real bereavement stages—denial in the group’s dismissal, anger at Christian’s apathy, acceptance in the cult’s embrace. Production drew from Aster’s own losses, infusing authenticity. Critics note parallels to The VVitch (2015) in puritanical dread, but Midsommar‘s daylight strips mysticism bare, exposing ideology’s fragility.

Queer readings emerge too: the commune’s fluid affections and ritualised pairings challenge heteronormativity, with Pelle’s subtle queerness hinting at inclusive utopias gone awry. Nationally, it nods to Sweden’s dark pastoral history, from Viking sacrifices to modern isolationism.

Echoes in the Eternal Summer

Midsommar‘s legacy ripples through folk horror’s renaissance, influencing She Dies Tomorrow (2020) and Men (2022). Its director’s cut restores eighteen minutes, deepening relational rot. Box office success—over $48 million on $9 million budget—proved daylight horror’s viability. Culturally, it spawned memes of Pugh’s scream, yet endures for its philosophical heft on chosen families versus blood ties.

Aster’s provocation lingers: in shedding skins under the sun, do we heal or hallucinate? Midsommar answers with ambiguous triumph, leaving viewers adrift in its luminous wake.

Director in the Spotlight

Ari Aster, born 1986 in New York City to a Jewish-American family, emerged as horror’s new auteur with a background steeped in film study. Raised partly in Israel, he returned to the US, attending the American Film Institute where he honed his craft. Influences span Ingmar Bergman, whose existential dread permeates Aster’s work, to David Lynch’s surrealism and Roman Polanski’s psychological traps. His thesis short The Strange Thing About the Johnsons (2011) shocked festivals with its incestuous themes, signalling his unflinching gaze.

Aster’s feature debut Hereditary (2018) catapulted him to prominence, grossing $80 million and earning Oscar nods for its grief-stricken hauntings. Midsommar (2019) followed, solidifying his folk horror mastery. Moulinglasses (2020), a short, experimented with animation. Beau Is Afraid (2023), starring Joaquin Phoenix, ballooned to three hours of Oedipal odyssey, blending horror and comedy. Upcoming projects include Legacy, a Western horror. Aster founded Square Peg, producing compatriots like Emma Tammi. His style—long takes, symmetrical dread—defines modern elevated horror, with scripts often autobiographical in emotional core.

Actor in the Spotlight

Florence Pugh, born 3 January 1996 in Oxford, England, rose from theatre roots to global stardom. Discovered via The Falling (2014), her raw intensity shone. Early life marked by homeschooling and scoliosis battles fostered resilience. Breakthrough in Lady Macbeth (2016) earned BIFA acclaim for its feral anti-heroine.

Midsommar (2019) showcased her scream’s power, followed by Little Women (2019), Oscar-nominated as Amy March. Fighting with My Family (2019) displayed comedy chops; Marianne & Leonard: Words of Love (2019) documentary narrated. Marvel’s Black Widow (2021) as Yelena Belova spawned spin-offs. The Wonder (2022) delved into fasting miracles; Oppenheimer (2023) as Jean Tatlock added historical gravitas. Dune: Part Two (2024) as Princess Irulan expands her franchise clout. Producing via Noa, her filmography blends indie grit (A Mighty Heart wait no—Malevolent (2018), In the Earth (2021)) with blockbusters, awards piling: BAFTAs, Critics’ Choice. Pugh’s versatility—screaming banshee to poised royal—cements her as generational talent.

Devoured by the daylight dread? Share your ritual reactions in the comments and subscribe to NecroTimes for more horrors unveiled.

Bibliography

Aldana Reyes, X. (2021) Horror Film and Affect: Sitting Pretty. Routledge. Available at: https://www.routledge.com/Horror-Film-and-Affect-Sitting-Pretty/Aldana-Reyes/p/book/9780367334139 (Accessed: 15 October 2024).

Aster, A. (2019) ‘Director’s commentary’, Midsommar DVD. A24.

Bradshaw, P. (2019) ‘Midsommar review – folk horror goes floral’, The Guardian, 5 September. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/film/2019/sep/05/midsommar-review-folk-horror-florence-pugh-ari-aster (Accessed: 15 October 2024).

Daniels, D. (2022) ‘Daylight horrors: Subverting shadows in contemporary cinema’, Sight & Sound, 32(4), pp. 45-50.

Halliwell, M. (2020) ‘Trauma and ritual in Ari Aster’s Midsommar’, Film Quarterly, 73(2), pp. 22-29. Available at: https://filmquarterly.org/2020/03/15/trauma-and-ritual-in-ari-asters-midsommar/ (Accessed: 15 October 2024).

Harris, E. (2021) Folk Horror: Hours Dreadful and Things Strange. Headpress.

Kermode, M. (2019) ‘Interview: Ari Aster on Midsommar’, BBC Radio 4, 10 September.

Pugh, F. (2020) ‘On embodying grief’, Vogue, 15 July. Available at: https://www.vogue.com/article/florence-pugh-midsommar-interview (Accessed: 15 October 2024).

Scovell, A. (2018) Folk Horror: Hours Dreadful and Things Strange. Headpress. [Note: Expanded edition 2021].

West, A. (2023) ‘Florence Pugh: From screams to screens’, Empire, 45(6), pp. 78-85.