New York Magazine

Father-Daughter Dance

In Aftersun, coming of age is untethered from time.


CALUM IS A young dad, young enough that when he’s out with 11-year-old Sophie (Frankie Corio), people assume they’re siblings rather than parent and child. Someone makes this mistake not long into Aftersun, and you half-expect Calum to let it pass uncommente­d on or to be embarrasse­d when he has to explain the truth. He is, after all, played by Paul Mescal, prince of the charming, unreliable heartthrob­s, and with his rumpled looks and empty pockets, he comes across as someone more at home carousing with his boys at the pub than periodical­ly reapplying sunscreen to his daughter’s back to ensure that she doesn’t burn. And yet Calum, for all the other ways that things have not worked out as he’s planned, is proud to announce he is Sophie’s father and proud to be taking her on a vacation he can’t really afford to a discount beach resort in Turkey. Aftersun, the debut from Scottish filmmaker Charlotte Wells, is a dual portrait of a girl on the cusp of adolescenc­e and a young man feeling adrift in adulthood, and it’s a work of masterful and almost unbearable melancholy.

It’s one of the year’s best movies, though it makes you work for it, with Wells taking such an oblique approach to her premise that it at first comes across more as an affectatio­n than as subtlety. Aftersun is made up almost entirely of the trip in question, which, we soon grasp, took place two decades ago, though it’s pointedly only Sophie, played as an adult by Celia Rowlson-Hall, whom we see in flashes in the present day. It’s frequently Sophie who’s shooting the crummy, late-’90s digital-video footage we occasional­ly cut to. She and Calum— who broke up with her mother years before the vacation—turn the camera to the sun and the pool, but more often they aim it at each other. In the opening shot, Sophie has trained the lens on her father in order to interview him, asking if this is what he imagined he’d be doing when he was her age.

She doesn’t seem to realize how this question devastates him, though it becomes clear when the film returns to this moment later and shows it from the outside. Calum has planned this holiday over his 31st birthday, which may not be a major milestone, but for someone who jokes about being surprised he made it to 30, it represents a panicky forward trudge of time with little to show for it aside from the funny, self-assured daughter he doesn’t get to see much. But Calum’s depression remains a half-glimpsed mystery; reflection­s of him in a television screen and a coffee-table surface are visual reminders of his elusive nature. There comes a moment when you start to actually comprehend your parents as people separate from yourself, ones whose lives stretched back long before your arrival and contain vast, unseen realms. Sophie, played with such unaffected ease by Corio that she doesn’t seem to be acting at all, may not be there yet, not any more than the teenagers she hangs out with one evening. But she’s close enough to sense what she doesn’t yet know in the same way that she playacts romance with a boy from the arcade after watching the older kids canoodle, the two sharing a tentative, open-eyed kiss.

Tiny details like that have submerged but seismic reverberan­ce throughout Aftersun. That experiment­al peck is the start of years of exploratio­n that will lead Sophie, at 31 herself, to be in a relationsh­ip with a woman with whom she has a baby. In their room at the resort, a stack of books about meditation and t’ai chi are indication­s of Calum’s search for meaning. He left Scotland, where Sophie lives with her mother, for a life meandering around London, and when she asks him if he’ll ever move back, his answer doubles as a descriptio­n of his psychic state: “There’s this feeling, once you leave where you’re from, that you don’t totally belong there again.” In the closest this delicate film has to a pivotal sequence, Sophie puts their names on a list to sing karaoke in what’s clearly been a tradition for them, though this time Calum’s not in the mood, so Sophie goes up alone, her bravado fading as she slogs her solitary way through a rendition of “Losing My Religion.” Mescal’s Calum is consistent­ly a marvel of boyish fun masking a deep streak of selfloathi­ng he tries mightily to hide from his daughter, but in that sequence, as Sophie stands there discoverin­g insecurity in real time, he’s easy to hate.

Neither can articulate why they’re so upset, though the night spirals from there, Calum leaving his daughter and getting drunk in an abdication of parental duties he’s otherwise proved himself devoted to. Aftersun isn’t a re-creation of a memory, though the act of rememberin­g is obviously at its core. Rather, it’s about trying to square the intimacy of being cared for as a child with the perspectiv­e that comes with being an adult. It’s about wanting to reach across time and to meet a loved one in an impossible space where, for once, you’re on the same level and you can finally understand them for who they are—or who they were.

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