Aftersun, a memory developing in the dark

Aftersun works the way memory does — in fragments, out of order, lit by the blue glow of an old camcorder screen. A daughter, now the age her father was that summer, plays the tape back, looking for the grief she was too young to see.

Paul Mescal gives a performance built almost entirely of things withheld. The film never tells you what he's carrying; it just lets it sit at the edge of the frame, in a turned back, a too-long pause, a dance floor strobing in the dark.

I think it's nice that we share the same sky.

Charlotte Wells refuses every cue you expect. There is no explanatory scene, no tidy diagnosis. There is only the unbearable tenderness of watching someone you love be young and sad and trying, for your sake, not to show it.

It's a first feature that feels like a closing argument. I haven't stopped thinking about that final corridor.