Aftersun

Aftersun, the debut feature by writer/director Charlotte Wells, often doesn't feel like a film. It feels like an intrusion into the life of Calum (Normal People's Mescal) and his daughter, Sophie (newcomer Corio), as they take a holiday together in Turkey.

But then, it's almost as if the older Sophie (Rowlson-Hall) is intruding upon her own memories. Seen sparingly, she recalls a final time of untrammeled father-daughter connection on the beaches and in the blue waves, understanding now what her father, quietly, seemed to understand then. These holidays are a tradition, one that Calum seems very aware is collapsing, for too many reasons to list. Separation from Sophie's mum, Sophie's imminent adolescence, and the weight of a reality from which he constantly tries to protect her.

There's something of fellow Scot Lynne Ramsay's work to Wells' depiction of their crumbling relationship, her willingness to indulge in symbolism and metaphorical unrealism (the casting of the American Rowlson-Hall, primarily a choreographer and dancer, makes most sense in one of these moments), and the exploration of pain, how we ignore it or embrace it but must inevitably make peace with it. While many filmmakers aspire to what Ramsay does, Wells' greatest achievement is in feeling like a kin to her intimate, sometimes ethereal work. It's a film in which little is explicit, but all the weight of their relationship is present in the perfectly observed conversations and excursions, the ease of their interactions and Calum's quiet restraint as he keeps a shadow at bay.

Aftersun is lyrical without ever being obtuse, and it's a film that flourishes when attention is paid to details: a bruise, a rug, the hand that holds the camera that catches silly moments together. The whirring of tape and accompanying lo-res visuals are signifiers that a moment has significance, even if young Sophie doesn't realize it. But then, every moment on this trip has meaning for her, which is why she recalls them, and why the astoundingly organic connection between Calum and Sophie (Mescal and Corio both almost shockingly naturalistic) is simultaneously heartwarming and tragic.

Wells also catches a mood and an era: Late Nineties mournful Britpop and easy dance tunes play in the background, the kind of music an out-of-season Turkish resort appealing to British holidaymakers would play, Catatonia sliding into Blur sliding into "Macarena." Wells uses the pop soundtrack to resonate with the emotions, like how Sophie tries to drag Calum to perform a karaoke version of "Losing My Religion" (their song, it is implied, from easier holidays past), and a brutally perfect use of "Under Pressure" that sums up the convoluted emotions of the story as much as the final, poignant airport farewell.