Cory's Reads #29: Ari Aster is Dreadful and I Hate Him
A fond "fuck you" to my favorite director
“Do you sometimes wish she was dead?”
This question is posed early on in Beau is Afraid, the surrealist new horror-comedy from acclaimed auteur Ari Aster. Beau (Joaquin Phoenix) is anxious over just about everything, but his impending visit with his mother is especially weighing on his mind as of late. As we will soon find out, the relationship between Beau and Mona Wasserman is strained, to say the least.
“No, of course not!”
Beau responds to his therapist (Stephen McKinley Henderson) not with conviction, but with embarrassment. It may not seem so at the time, but the therapist’s question is shockingly prescient. After being kept up all night by a not-so-noisy neighbor, missing his flight, and avoiding assault from the many criminals who roam just outside his apartment building, Beau dials his mother. A man answers the phone, explaining that he is just a postal worker. He found this phone by a body inside a home. The body has no head, only a shattered chandelier obscuring a bloody mess beneath it. Aster’s camera fixates on Beau as he hears the news, lingering even as he is unable (or unwilling) to grasp the magnitude of what has just happened.
Is this Beau’s worst nightmare come to life? Or has his longtime fantasy been realized?
It is here that Beau is Afraid, whose first 20 minutes are laugh-out-loud funny, reminds us of the madman behind it. Even as Aster’s third film maintains its comedic chops, the director manages to drench this moment and several others in the kind of dread only he can conjure up. Mona’s death is so obscenely upsetting, and yet it is also kind of funny? Later in the film, Beau tries to stop a young girl from drinking a gallon of paint. A morbid layer of humor persists even here, but more than anything, it is deeply disturbing.
These intense bursts of dread are part and parcel of the Ari Aster experience. Hereditary was simply a compelling family drama until young Charlie saw her head ripped off by a telephone pole. Midsommar kicks things off with arguably the most upsetting sequence of Aster’s young career, and only ups the ante further with its gory “Ättestupa” sequence later in the film.
With this rare sense of suffering in hand, it’s no wonder that Aster has always resisted the “horror” label that came with the territory of delivering two masterpieces of the genre with his first two features. The horrors of Hereditary and Midsommar were undeniable, but they were derived from a sense of doom and despair that ultimately crawls deeper under your skin than most other horror films ever could. That same feeling remains in Beau is Afraid, even as the horror dial is turned down. The film therefore marks a creative evolution for its director, and your mileage may understandably vary on how successful that evolution truly is.
As an ardent Aster acolyte, I find myself conflicted. There was unique pressure on Aster with Beau is Afraid to deliver not just a great film, but a masterpiece. Such expectations may sound unreasonable, but a cinematic landscape devoid of singular voices like Aster’s has left this generation of cinephiles desperate for an auteur to call their own. If Beau could stick the landing, Aster might be that guy.
Damien Chazelle likely deserves that kind of recognition, and his Babylon draws comparisons to Beau is Afraid via Chazelle’s reckless commitment to his own sprawling vision. Both Aster and Chazelle managed to squeeze three-hour films through a major Hollywood studio — Paramount Pictures produced Babylon, while Beau is a product of the independent A24 — without succumbing to the kind of oversight often necessitated by these relationships.
Unfortunately, a bit of oversight may have helped both films immensely. I hate to admit it, as I will always run to the defense of a director’s most indulgent tendencies, but Aster’s Beau is Afraid is painfully overwritten. Aster exercised impressive restraint with Hereditary and Midsommar, but his dialogue in Beau is circular, repeating itself ad nauseum, and then dragging out its obvious conclusions well beyond what is necessary. Indeed, the film overstays its welcome, but it’s also hard to determine if it was ever welcome at all.
The surreal world of Beau is Afraid may bring to mind Charlie Kaufman’s Synecdoche, New York or Peter Weir’s The Truman Show, but those two films found success by first establishing a sense of reality that is then subverted as the film goes on. Beau is Afraid never offers its viewers such luxury. All three hours of the film are spent unmoored from reality. Are we inside Beau’s head, perceiving the world as he would? It’s an educated guess, and the first hour of Beau is Afraid runs rather smoothly according to this framework. But this hot air balloon of a movie — lots and lots of hot air in this one — keeps lifting higher and higher into the sky. What should be shocking or terrifying is therefore cheapened. Beau is Afraid — despite its Odyssean scale — has a single trick up its sleeve.
Beau is afraid. The obviousness of the film’s title may compel some (I’m still longing for the original title - Disappointment Blvd), but it actually limits the film from digging beneath its mile-wide and inch-deep surface. If there is a fascinating exploration of psychosexual trauma and inherited anxiety somewhere here, it is entirely obscured by the central gimmick, as well as the disconnect between that gimmick and our sense of reality.
For as provocative as he attempts to be with his third film, Aster never comes close to generating the reactions that he received with Hereditary and Midsommar. That possibility seems to be on his mind throughout Beau is Afraid, as the film includes several allusions to Aster’s previous two films. Although I would likely include Aster on a shortlist of the 21st century’s cinematic savants, I still fear it is too early in his career to jerk himself and his filmography off so unabashedly. As beheadings and bodies splattered onto rocks evoke those two films, Beau is Afraid’s shortcomings only become more apparent. There is not a single theme within this film that is not better handled in Hereditary. As Aster’s career continues, Beau is Afraid will likely become a more intriguing artifact, evidence of his consistent preoccupation with heredity and generational trauma. But there was a subtlety to that initial masterwork that is sorely missing here.
That’s not to say the film is without its strengths. The cast is particularly noteworthy here. Joaquin Phoenix predictably excels as a socially stunted misanthrope, but the real stars are Nathan Lane and Amy Ryan, who join forces as Roger and Grace, a kooky couple grieving the loss of their son, who was killed in action in Caracas. Lane stands out as a macho surgeon whose mannerisms can only match what Beau might believe a father to be. The former Broadway star — Patti LuPone makes a late appearance as Mona Wasserman, as well — maintains his bravado, making his impression of a military father absolutely hilarious. Ryan’s manic waffling between compassionate caretaker and invective guilt-tripper is both overwhelming and mesmerizing. As two of the film’s funniest characters, Roger and Grace are also its most terrifying.
These constant contradictions are essential to the Beau is Afraid experience. If this newsletter has seemed especially sloppy up until this point, that is partly by design. Beau is Afraid is a messy film, and Aster would likely even concede that point. It’s nearly impossible to evaluate or discuss, with alienation and frustration its two primary aims. What makes the movie magnificent is what also makes it insufferable. And what makes it unwatchable is also what makes it so darn delightful. It’s Aster’s worst film, but it’s also his most accomplished. That the New York native is even capable of holding this hot mess together is a testament to his immense talent, although it may also be an indictment of his imagination. When I say that Beau is Afraid is masturbatory and mangled, it is both a criticism and a compliment! The film’s form is perfect. This story and its ideas could only be conveyed in this amorphous shape. I found my personal viewing experience hindered by that shape, but it would be unfair to regard that as a failure on Aster’s part.
After all, there is something quite bold about Beau is Afraid. Maybe even too bold. This film is embarrassing. Aster may remain coy about the autobiographical nature of the film, but to tell this story is so nakedly vulnerable, one can’t help but sweat and cringe on the director’s behalf for all 179 minutes of Beau is Afraid.
The best filmmaking is indeed personal, but it also requires perspective. Even as an accomplished filmmaker, Aster likely should have waited a decade or two to divulge the drab details of his childhood in this way. As Joaquin Phoenix undresses in front of us, so does Aster. The director is surely unbothered by the prospect of our discomfort watching his film — he might even be pleased — but Beau is Afraid remains handicapped by its honesty. This becomes especially troubling in the final scene of the film, wherein a terrific Richard Kind is wasted as Dr. Cohen, lawyer to Mona Wasserman. Of course, Cohen could just as easily be a figment of Beau’s imagination, as could the entirety of the film. At any rate, this final scene is almost certainly a metaphorical manifestation of Beau’s psyche, as Beau finds himself stranded at sea, sitting trial for his laundry list of regrets and insecurities. Surrounding him is an arena of spectators. Kind is tasked with describing Aster’s every thematic interest, minimizing the supposed final blow of this tired tapestry.
But anti-climax might be Aster’s intention (to climax could be dangerous, after all). The film’s final stroke of frustrating genius comes at the end of this laborious litigation. Beau’s rowboat is suddenly flipped upside down, presumably drowning him. The onlookers quickly lose interest and file out of the bleachers as the film’s credits begin to roll. As the film’s original title suggests, Aster is aware of how disappointing this resolution might be. He understands most viewers may not care about most of what they just watched, and he sympathizes with both their disinterest and their disgust. Once again, Aster’s natural talent as a director allows him to fortify his defenses against his film’s many deserved criticisms.
Shouldn’t a story this dreadful be told dreadfully? Shouldn’t an adventure this humiliating implicate its own construction in that very humiliation?
Beau is Afraid is bad, and that’s what makes it one of the best films of the year. Ari Aster is awful, and that’s what makes him my favorite working director.
Like it or not, a healthy cinema is one that allows a talent like Aster to masturbate for nearly three hours.
Maybe his next film will allow him to finally come.
Thanks for reading! Sorry for that ending - I couldn’t help myself. Stay tuned as I will be following up this newsletter with another one this week. It’s NFL Draft week, which means I’ve got a hot-and-ready mock draft for you all. Happy reading!