I finally watched Ari Aster’s Midsommar. While I had previously been intrigued by it enough to read the full Wikipedia synopsis, I wasn’t sure I would have the stamina to actually endure the film itself, so I refrained for a while. A few nights ago, I decided enough was enough, and I watched it. I was disturbed, but not at all in the way I thought I’d be. I was disturbed by how overall undisturbed I was.

My lack of disturbance was in no way due to a lack of disturbing things in the movie. In fact, there were a number of truly horrifying scenes, like when a ritualistic suicide doesn’t…uh…”take” on the first try. Despite this and other atrocities, the movie would not let me be disturbed because, dark though it was, light dominated. Shots of horrifying deaths were overpowered by shots of a sunny landscape, flowers, and happy Swedes. Furthermore, the tactics used by the cult members to make the protagonist feel welcome in their community don’t just work on the protagonist – they work on the audience as well. The bright visuals which are uncharacteristic of the genre combined with the convincingly amiable characters made it easy to forget about the horrors inherent to their way of living, and this easy forgetfulness is itself almost more horrifying than the horrors themselves.

The horror genre (along with comedy, weirdly enough) seems to be an accurate way of gauging how in touch with reality one is. If one can laugh at that which is truly funny and be afraid of that which is truly scary, it would seem to suggest that one is grounded, knowing what is trivial and what is serious. While most horror movies set the whole tone of the film to match the seriousness of whatever subject is being dealt with, Midsommar intentionally chooses to forego the usual horror movie setting. This divergence, far from being a violation of the genre, actually serves its purpose on a deeper level. It helps us appreciate not just how awful the events are, but how awful it is that most of the characters don’t think the events are awful. Murder is horrible all on its own; but failure to see it as such is perhaps even worse.

I am still haunted by the beauty of Midsommar. I still think of how touching it was to see a woman who had no one left to console her finally be held by a family. I still think of how fun it would be to dance around a May pole. I think of how comforting it would be to always have a group of people reciprocating my emotions to help me feel heard and validated. These are the images that stick with me, not the disturbing ones. And that is what scares me the most: the horror of not being horrified.