Midsommar
What a waste of talent to put Florence Pugh in this inept pastiche of Nordic legends, folk tales, Bergman, and The Wicker Man (the 1973 one). It is relentlessly grindingly soul-numbingly weird, as it seems to plumb dark depths of the Swedish psyche that, really, should be allowed to fester in peace. In this modern-but-ancient-rooted commune in central Sweden, a midsummer Festival happens every year, but this year's is one they only do every 90 years when they go all out on ritual suicides, human sacrifices, sex with strangers, putting your pubic hair in a pie for that special fellah you're interested in, guzzling hallucinogens, and gutting bears so they can stuff bad boyfriends into the sticky remains before setting them on fire and having a nice group wail (think of that eerie wailing scene in Persona multiplied by several hundred.). That's just a small sample of what goes on, as our American heroine does her level best to not be a party pooper and navigate the awkward social situations which, as you might imagine, arise frequently.
Anyway, I hate this movie, hate that I felt some fascination and even some titillation as I watched, and hope all of you can watch it too so that we can all join together in hating it. I also hate that the land of my ancestors (central Sweden) was played by some fields in Hungary. That's just not right.
