Eddington

It's only natural that after releasing two widely celebrated films in which supernatural terror is augmented by human folly, writer/director Ari Aster would shift his focus to the existential dread of being alive and being forced to interact with others. First up was his three-hour anxiety attack Beau Is Afraid, a masterpiece of discomfort and dark, dark humor. Following in its footsteps is Eddington, a journey back into some of the most (in)tense moments of the COVID-19 pandemic by way of a steadily escalating conflict in a fictional town.

Contrary to the fissures that appeared on our TV (and computer) screens at that time, Eddington's residents don't split cleanly along our ideological lines. Sure, there are anti-maskers and protesters shouting "No justice, no peace!", conspiracy theorists and New Age evangelists, and economic health pitted against physical health. All very recognizable ideas, but rendered in the more uncertain, hypocritical way that regular people act. The only way to assign people a "side" is to reduce who they are to a single action. High schoolers Brian (Cameron Mann) and Eric (Matt Gomez Hidaka) join protests following George Floyd's murder in order to impress Sarah (Amélie Hoeferle), a girl they both like whose understanding of racism seems to come entirely from reading forums. Mayor Ted Garcia (Pedro Pascal) has forbidden all public gatherings, but we first encounter him in his bar meeting with a few of the city counselors. And Sheriff Joe Cross (Joaquin Phoenix) seems far more concerned with order than with the law, arguing for convenience every time the two come into conflict. His frustration with Ted even prompts him to run for mayor, despite the nature of politics threatening to drag up a painful memory for his wife Lou (Emma Stone). It drives a wedge between them, enough for her conspiracy theory obsessed mother Dawn (Deirdre O'Connell) to introduce her to cult-leader Vernon Jefferson Peak (Austin Butler).

Everything happening in the town in these first few days is the result of people flailing in the dark. It's late May 2020, so although the pandemic has been raging for a few months, Joe may well be correct when he asserts that isolated Sevilla County has had zero confirmed cases. It grants him a sense of righteousness in telling everyone to ignore safety protocols, supporting many citizens' desire to continue to live as if nothing has changed. He's scared and uncertain (although he'd never admit it), and denying the impact the outside world has on their town is his method of asserting control. Of course, once the protests start popping up, that fiction becomes a lot harder to uphold, try as he might.

In a bold move, not only do we see a news report about George Floyd's murder, complete with the picture of his face that's seared into our memories, but the protesters are not very sympathetic. Their cause is just; Joe and his deputies even acknowledges as much. However, their bizarre, overwrought doublespeak is hilarious in its absurdity, well-meaning but obviously mindlessly repeating what others have told them as opposed to being born of experience or dedication. Sarah, Brian, and Eric are the only protesters we hear from; two who barely believe in the cause, and two white people who twist themselves into knots to acknowledge they have no right to be speaking on behalf of a movement for people of color, but they're doing it anyways. They're angry about injustice, but all they can think to do is tilt at windmills. It's a clear statement about how high profile tragedies cause activist circles to swell with people who have neither the knowledge nor conviction to be effective, and thus unwittingly undermine the perception of the entire movement.

The people from all sides who talk a big game but never take any action are the real problem. There's so much rhetoric flying around, so many complaints and appeals for decency, but no one's really trying to effect any change. The closest we get in the first half is Joe deciding to run for mayor, an effort in which he only ever seems half interested. Such is the plague of phones keeping us connected at all times, filling our brains with information on which we've no ability to act, and incentivizing us to perform for the masses. That nearly every scene features some sort of recording, often at least momentarily foregrounded, drives home the point even harder than most films which address the subject. It's not that media is evil, but that there is such a thing as being too informed.

Of course, all the filming and chaos attracts some outside attention, including people who are stone-cold serious about what they stand for, and who make it their business to emphatically state their viewpoint. The rush towards the finale is more about what happens when people who posture are forced to confront those doing what they feel is necessary. But even then, even then, no one is really able to plan for what transpires. They're reduced to reaction and opportunism, both which bolster the former point about the impact of experiencing the world almost exclusively through the internet.

Despite its weighty subject matter, and a few moments which elicited gasps from my audience, it is a deeply, darkly funny movie. Few things are better than seeing a Phoenix character act so confident, only to fall to bits at the slightest bit of pushback. Special acknowledgement is in order for Luke Grimes, who plays a human Golden Retriever in Deputy Guy Tooley. He's so eager and excited, like a kid on Christmas morning. It's a delight. The same goes for O'Connell, whose role requires her to more or less spew a constant stream of recognizable nonsense, which just causes Joe further exasperation to the joy of the audience. As he is wont to do, Clifton Curtis Jr. gets the strangest character in Lodge, a homeless man whose appearance and speech pattern is akin to a goat, complete with occasional bleating, who's around to bother everyone in a variety of amusing ways. I could go on, but suffice it to say everyone is doing great work here, even as the performances aren't really what stands out about the film.

Simmering in the background the whole time is an AI data center that intends to become the town's new core industry. We don't learn much about it or its purpose, which is by design. Instead, it serves as a powerful symbol. The very real phenomenon of tech companies coming into dying towns to swoop up cheap land and cheaper labor has come to signify the unstoppable encroachment of the outside world. It's aided by politicians seeking a legacy and/or kickback, while providing few benefits to the citizenry and depleting their scarce natural resources. The debate over whether or not to allow such an incursion often sows division, such as providing Joe with an anti-Ted ally in Paula (Rachel de la Torre). The most entertaining and seemingly random detail of this company is its name: SolidGoldMagikarp. But it was chosen deliberately, as the representative of a type of LLM failure mode (i.e. ChapGPT) that produces bizarre and unexpected output. Here, it's a nod to unpredictability of the human mind. If your primary consumption of politics and current events filters through the media and the internet, you're apt to think you can determine someone's beliefs based on their demographics. The hubris inherent in that is laid bare by the absurdity of SolidGoldMagikarp: if we can't even predict or understand how a piece of software that we created comes to its "conclusions", how can we hope to understand other people except by talking directly to them?

Eddington is a Western epic, sprawling in ideological scope despite its limited geographical location. Aster has stuffed this thing full of ideas, attempting a grand reckoning with the psychological destruction wrought by the pandemic. It contains a handful of stray thoughts, some of which are lightning bolts that never return, and some of which are half-baked provocations. But all add to the texture of the town, as so many derive from our world. The script's sharp sense of humor prevents it from feeling like a primal scream or an appeal to our better angels; rather, he's showing us who we are as a people. The complicated jumble of nerves and frustrations and minor joys and strained sense of community, the way we retreat to the comfort of our in-group, and how even direct action is unlikely to prove as fruitful as we'd like to think. Aster does not know the way out of this morass, but he knows the first step is acknowledging it. In an ideal world, we'd be reviled by what we see, and chart a path back to sanity.

I'm somewhat skeptical we live in such a world (as is Aster, gauging by the denouement), but the only thing worse than that reality would be to give up hope.