Aftersun (2022) | REVIEW

Directed by Charlotte Wells — Screenplay by Charlotte Wells.

There is no getting around the fact that I am extremely late to the party when it comes to Charlotte Wells’ Aftersun. Frankly, there are two reasons for that. Firstly, the 2022 film was released in February of 2023 in my region, so I would always be late to the party for this film which was first released at the Cannes Film Festival in May of last year (and which was already one of the most celebrated films in critics’ circles long before Danes would even get the chance to see it). Secondly, its local release back in February was inconvenient for me, as it came out at a time when I was preparing myself for something quite time-consuming (and potentially draining) in the first half of the year, as well as the fact that I was also scrambling to cover new 2023 releases at that time. I was, honestly, overwhelmed at that time — both in my daily life and by the hype that had snowballed rapidly for months with no end in sight. 

And so, in an effort to protect my first viewing of the film, I decided to put it on the back burner until I felt that I had gotten enough space from the overwhelmingly positive reception to the film that I thought could theoretically negatively impact my own response to the film. Months have passed and here we are. I just turned 30 years old yesterday, and, once the birthday festivities had come to an end last night, I thought I would ‘treat myself’ to a film that I had been meaning to finally see for so long now — in this case Charlotte Wells’ Aftersun. And, honestly, I was an emotional wreck once it ended. Aftersun is a beautiful but heart-wrenching film, and I desperately want to tell you about it, even though it already had its moment in the sun with numerous awards bodies. Because this film is special, and it hit me much harder than I expected it to. 

Charlotte Wells’ Aftersun is a coming-of-age drama about one woman, named Sophie (played by Celia Rowlson-Hall as an adult, but, primarily, played by Frankie Corio as an 11-year-old), and her attempt to better understand her father through videotape recordings and distant memories, which she tries to interpret along the way. The video recordings originate from a MiniDV camera, and what they depict are images of her, at age 11, and her father Calum (played by Paul Mescal), in the days leading up to his 31st birthday, while they were on a summer holiday together in Turkey in the 1990s. 

Though the vast majority of the film is presented as this vibrant summer holiday in Turkey between father and daughter, the film often cuts to MiniDV camera recordings of the principal actors, and back to images of an adult Sophie mostly seen through flickering strobe lights at a mysterious rave party. But the film also shows us how adult Sophie, now a mother, is now as old as her father was on that vacation in Turkey. You get the feeling that adult Sophie is trying to communicate to her father through video tapes and is desperately trying to fill out blanks in her memory that may enlighten her about problems she was oblivious to at age eleven. Its principal character is seemingly sifting through memories, still images, and video recordings for the purpose of investigating what she, in hindsight, might have missed way back when. To go beyond subjectivity. To truly see her father.

Although Wells hasn’t gone so far as to say exactly how autobiographical this film is to her, she has indicated that it is more personal than most ‘personal films’ out there. It certainly feels that way. It is this incredibly raw, tender, and melancholic slice-of-life coming-of-age film that seeks to understand different perspectives. I think that as we grow older, we gain new perspectives and see things more clearly. What this film, in part, investigates is how two people can experience the same thing at the same time but be at different wavelengths because of something that is simmering beneath the surface of one of them, who is so full of despair that they must try to keep a straight face in front of the lights in their life. I found this film to be completely shattering. The aspect of the film that is about this clearly struggling early 30s person who is still trying to figure out what his place is in the world really connected with me, and the fact that Mescal’s depressed character is days away from a birthday that he isn’t really comfortable with celebrating snuck up on me and absolutely walloped me.

And all of this — all of these complex ideas about memory and someone potentially trying to hide their depression — is communicated with so much confidence, skill, and style that the film overcomes whatever negatives you may or may not associate with the slice-of-life type narratives. I was deeply moved by how every second of the film consists of these deliberate and powerful frames. In so many scenes, Sophie and Calum’s experiences are contrasted, like with how Calum is often kept at arm’s length — and how his innermost feelings are only slowly revealed. His switching off to have a smoke once she goes to bed, also becomes him drinking to the point of not remembering how he got injured. It constantly builds until it’s right there in front of you. 

There is a beautiful close-up of them holding hands, another of a polaroid slowly developing, and an early shot of Sophie peering up at her dad through a telephone box’s glass, behind which a dejected Calum is wishing her mother the best. Then there are the five sequences for which I will likely remember the film’s visual language. One is a dissolve transition that broke me. Another is the incredibly well-designed final scene, in which we pan between different individuals separated by time (a devastating final shot that had been spoiled for me beforehand but which absolutely floored me once I saw it in context). Then there is the dance scene that is paired with the deeply affecting song “Under Pressure.” There is a scene in which Calum has a strong and shocking reaction to hearing how his daughter feels, while he is looking at himself in the mirror. And, finally, I must talk about one of the scenes in which young Sophie asks her father about where eleven-year-old Calum thought he’d be now at age thirty. In this specific version of the scene, all we see is a stack of books and both a mirror reflection and television reflection that show a partially obscured Calum answering her question. This is such a great way of highlighting how she only saw parts of her father, as well as how she is now desperately searching her memory bank for who he really was underneath it all. But all she has here are incomplete reflections and perspectives.

And through it all, Paul Mescal and Frankie Corio shine as bright as the brightest stars in the night sky. Their chemistry and rapport feel genuine, and none of their dialogue ever feels scripted. Their performances, alongside the pitch-perfect editing and framing, help to accomplish something only the very best films can. This is the kind of film that can act as an expert entryway into two people’s differing experiences. Like Roger Ebert once remarked, movies help us to understand and “identify with the people who are sharing this journey with us.” It’s the kind of film that constantly reminded me of that life lesson about cinema — because the emotion that is carefully inserted into every frame emanates off the screen and both transports and overpowers you. It isn’t just one thing — it is both warm, sensitive, and tragic depending on how far into it you are. In that regard, the film nails those complicated tug-of-war feelings that certain memories give you.

I could go on and on about Charlotte Wells’ Aftersun and the rich experience of watching it. It absolutely is utterly shattering, but it is also undeniably human — and I think anyone can find something with which they can deeply relate here. It’s not just one of the best and most assuredly crafted directorial debuts that I have ever seen, it’s also a surefire masterpiece that will stick with me for some time. Once I had wiped away tears, all I wanted to do once the movie was over was to remind my parents how much I love them — and that’s exactly what I did the next morning. And so, though some may think it overly sentimental to do so, I’d like to end my review by paraphrasing J. K. Simmons’ Oscar acceptance speech plea. Call your parents. Listen to them. Tell them you love them.

10 out of 10

– Review Written by Jeffrey Rex Bertelsen.