Charlotte Wells’s feature film debut Aftersun is filtered through the lens of an imaginary kaleidoscope. Built like a prism of light, the editing reflects the film’s many tonal shifts allowing Aftersun to resist a singular reading. To some, Aftersun could be described as a father-daughter romp between 11 year old Sophie (Frankie Corio) and Calum (Paul Mescal), but to another, it’s a vacation movie set in Turkey. Sunshine is certainly aplenty, but the film is not exactly happy, despite its obvious tenderness. Set in the late 1990s, Aftersun slowly reveals its true nature overtime. It’s a film about the past. The inaccessibility of one’s parents. Loss. Pain. Regret. The deceptive nature of memory, and perhaps most importantly, the seismic power of grief. Wells filters these experiences through Sophie as an adult, who is sprinkled throughout the film’s narrative in present tense. This effect makes the overall events of Aftersun both devastating and brilliant, like a stardust melody.
Aftersun begins with the sounds of a camcorder rewinding on a seemingly random moment in time. The digital camera takes a moment to focus before landing on Calum, who is backlit by the sun and dancing robotically. “These are my moves” he announces, to which Sophie responds as any 11-year-old would, “Dad, that’s so embarrassing.” Suddenly aware that he’s being filmed, Calum turns from the camcorder with his head bowed. Sophie’s excitement is palatable, but not matched by her father. Eventually someone literally “pauses” this opening scene over an image of Calum, contemplating him. If you look closely, there is a faint image of a young woman reflected upon the screen pouring over these recorded events. Blink twice and you’ll miss her. This is adult Sophie. Her shattered memories will dominate the film.
Despite this haunting quality that Wells establishes early in the film, Aftersun mostly functions around the sun soaked lethargy of a resort vacation. Calum lives in London and Sophie’s mother, who is based in Edinburgh, are currently separated, so this annual package holiday to Turkey feels sacred. We watch them swim and play pool and mull over hand-knotted rugs, and unlike most onscreen father-daughter duos that can feel goofy and awkward or geared towards resentment like Ryan O’Neil and Tatum O’Neil as Moze and Addie in Paper Moon, these two genuinely enjoy each other's company. They are not forced to be together. Much of this familial ease comes from Mescal and Corio’s convincing rapport that is simultaneously intimate and unpretentious, but also because Wells wants us to see that their smiles come easily.
However, Calum is aching despite his positive veneer. When we first meet him, he’s wearing a cast that he later removes himself. A bold choice. Sophie asks him what happened, but her father is evasive. Perhaps it was a drunken fight or drug infused fall? We never find out. Only 30 when the film begins, we get the impression that life has not always been kind to Sophie’s young father, who practices tai-chi while smoking cigarettes. He seems internally confused like anyone else at that age, but he puts his best foot forward for his daughter because he’s a good dad. He speaks with love rather than anger to Sophie’s mom and apologizes when he makes mistakes over small tiffs that could loom larger. But when Sophie is not present Calum considers his mortality. He says things like, “I can’t see myself at 40 to be honest. Surprised I made it to 30” when he can’t accomplish small tasks like putting on his wet suit. These moments of parental solitude are revealing. He cries uncontrollably sometimes and buys rugs he can’t afford as a form of self-soothing. Wells always places the camera at a distance from Calum during these scenes. He’s meant to be unattainable not only to his daughter but also to the film viewer. Mescal, who is probably best known for playing Connell in the 2020 pandemic hit Normal People, reminds us that he’s one of the best young actors working today. Wells does not provide Mescal with any telling monologues, so Mescal plays Calum like a human, whose battles are encased within his body with no way out. We know that he’s open to the world but constantly suffering from life’s soft blows.
Unlike her father, Sophie barrels through life with genuine charisma, which later turns into her Achilles heel. Corio is a delight as Sophie. She compliments Mescal with her sensitivity and cheerfulness and their natural connection is apparent to anyone, but Sophie’s vision of the world is only just starting to form. She recognizes that her dad is not wealthy, and can be cutting with her remarks, but doesn’t register his mental stability or sadness. It’s only later in life that Sophie starts to pick up the pieces. Wells slowly shifts the vacation narrative into new territory with dream-like images of the adult version of Sophie (Celia Rowlson-Hall) standing in a rave, looking at Calum, who is lost in the heat of the moment. Sophie is now the same age as her father. They are now both in their early 30s, suggesting that time has frozen for Calum, but not Sophie. In a fit of rage she tries to grab her father, who is forever lost in the void of memory. The joy that was provided by Corio is lost on adult Sophie. Like the camcorder footage that is spliced into the vacation narrative, this liminal space provided by this imaginary club is intermittent but visually expository.
Eventually Wells bridges two worlds together. She fuses young Sophie and Calum at the resort with adult Sophie and Calum at the rave. This visceral climax is played to the tune of Queen and David Bowie’s iconic hit “Under Pressure,” a ballad that is often overused but always worthy of attention. Wells slowly eases us into this final scene as young Sophie surrenders herself to her father’s embarrassing “moves” that were mentioned in the film’s opening scene. Wells edits young Sophie’s joy with adult Sophie’s rage as both versions of this father-daughter duo embrace. Both feelings are tangible, but Bowie and Mercury’s powerful voices are chopped and screwed and stripped bare, making the song alien to the listener. It’s unforgettable and moving, because just as the lyrics state, this is their last dance.
Wells has stated in numerous interviews that Aftersun is fictional, but rooted in experience and memory. Like Sophie, Wells' father died when she was a teenager. They took package holiday trips to Turkey before that, but Wells’ film is not autobiographical because Aftersun is not really unique. It’s for anyone who has lived through a devastating loss and soldiered on. It’s a memorial. A triumph. A complete work of art.