Aftersun
Aftersun is a film that slowly chips away at its serene veneer to then leave you in shambles by its conclusion. It tells an intimate story of a father desperately trying to shelter his young daughter from his struggles — all told with very little dialogue and an emphasis on the raw purity of the images. Think of the stark realism of Andrea Arnold and the sensorial cinema of Claire Denis and that’s Aftersun for you. It’s a truly stunning debut brimming with life that reminds us just how impenetrable the minds of our loved ones can be.
When your parents are apart, by way of separation, death, or any circumstance, I wonder if the way you split your love moves with it. I’m thinking if, before my mother or father’s death, my love for my parents was carved down the middle, 50/50, or if it would change depending on who I was around at the time.
In Charlotte Wells’ Aftersun, Sophie’s love for her father weighs so heavily on him, so doting and special, it’s almost as if her love for her mother stayed at home while she came with him on holiday. For the duration of this trip, and the film itself, there is only these two.
And so we watch it pass by with familiar late-90s mundanity: shuttle coaches, sun-loungers, lurid-colored cocktails, tribute acts, and Steps played on Walkman. This string of events is paired with — or interrupted by — conversations between Sophie and her father, identifying the traits that bind them so closely, observations of a father and daughter relationship that distance has somehow made stronger.
I loved this. Sophie reminded me of my sister, and how the character of Calum provided insight into the emotions of a father-child seldom seen. My dad is maybe the most mysterious person I know; often, I experience a deluge of emotion on the rare occasion he opens up. It’s like seeing a rare painting out of its frame, vulnerable and likely to be damaged.
It’s funny how our memories of people are so often burned into celluloid or on digital files we store away; how our understanding of adolescence and who we were in our formative years leaves our brains but is easily returned. But what it summons can be both gorgeous and heartbreaking, two perfect descriptors of Aftersun, a masterful debut in my eyes. A hugely important new filmmaker who successfully pins down what it means to love someone wholeheartedly, and to know that it’s often not enough — and not possible — to always have them by your side.
I was in therapy once, around this time last year, and we were discussing emotional memories. A very vague topic, we didn’t have to necessarily focus on our emotions, but maybe emotions we experienced from others. Painful, cognitive thoughts spiraled all around my psyche. However, I stopped on one particular memory: I choose to remember my dad's laughter, and one of the very few times I’ve ever seen him cry was when I was 4 years old. We were sitting in a car and he just put his hand on my shoulder and just wept. I was so confused and a little worried, but it's a moment I will always hold onto because it's concrete evidence of his humanity and his love for me despite everything. I think the best gift this film could have given me was reminding me these moments are more of worth to me as an adult than any painful memory.
Memories are a hard thing to reckon with. Unless you write down everything you’ve gone through in a diary rarely will you be able to remember something exactly the way it happened or the way you want to. Aftersun simply gives us a few days in Sophie’s life as she reflects on her past with her father.
She has a few camera recordings of exactly what happened but it’s really in Paul Mescal and Frankie Coiro’s hands to effectively depict this fractured yet functional relationship between two people who were never able to figure each other out. Each constantly surprises the other in different ways through acts of maturity or immaturity. It feels distant and vague at times but it has to be — no, it has no choice but to be. Works nonetheless with a few of the most memorable scenes I’ve seen all year.
A moving film about connection and the confines of one’s memory/perspective. In terms of plotting, it’s practically an anti-narrative hangout picture wherein nothing much happens. And as it progresses with each elongated moment, the film slowly becomes about the small and imperceptible signs, what’s left unsaid, and its emotional gut punches are only revealed later. Like watching an old video to reminisce about something or someone who is no longer with you on this earth.
Aftersun feels both complete and fragmented. Like two people recalling the same memory. It’s never overly shiny or nostalgic. There are bits that have washed away over time, and other bits that have been scrubbed over & over to try to bring them back into focus, like cleaning toothpaste off a mirror. We can’t be everywhere & we can’t remember every detail. Sometimes, we are forced to split into two people: ourselves and the person behind the camera, to see truthfully. Maybe retelling & creating is the closest we get to telling someone everything. And the closest we get to seeing someone fully.
The pain of loving someone who is ultimately unknowable and taking what little fragments of themselves they left behind — everlasting moments that you may or may not have made up, images that seem trivial but carry the weight of the entire world, their words that stuck with you regardless of you knowing they were exaggerations, fairytales, things told simply to make you happy — to fill in the gaps, haunting every corner of your memory when they are no longer with you. This movie made me think of myself getting older, my parents getting older, my friends who like preserving moments forever, and myself struggling to keep all these feelings alive within me.
In the end, all we’re left with are memories. The closure isn’t necessarily given to you or found: you can create it. Whether it fulfills you or gnaws on you until your last days are anyone’s guess. Just push forward regardless and find peace somehow.
