Nathalie Olah on Aftersun

A man sits slumped on the edge of the bed, turned away from the camera, his broad back curved and soft shoulder muscles convulsing. This isn’t an overwrought portrayal of suffering – Aftersun’s director Charlotte Wells has already put paid to that through her use of naturalistic dialogue peppered with frequent piss-taking and embedded home video footage with lingering shots that mirror the terrible directorial offerings my own grandfather brought back from trips to Malaga – but a slight and singular moment in which we finally see the full distress of single father, Calum, while holidaying with his daughter, Sophie, in the late 1990s.

This rugby body – the subject of countless fashion editorials, but which here is small, almost foetal – is that of Paul Mescal: an actor whose career has so far, and somewhat nobly, centred on the phenomenon of a masculinity whose fragility is only exacerbated by the pressures of social mobility. Unable to afford much nor picture his future, Calum fits a similar socioeconomic profile to that of Connell in Normal People – the role that propelled the actor to fame. His casting here is smart, like a continued character study, which suggests a commitment to showing the pretences that those caught up in that system are often forced to adopt. In Aftersun, Calum’s mood deteriorates during the organised day trip the pair take, and a certain amount of exposition would seem to pin this to a combination of deep-rooted trauma, present circumstance and a revelation by Sophie’s mother. During a phone call, Calum admits to being “happy for [her],” but no further details are provided. The film’s tragic premise rests on Calum’s determination to conceal from view pressures that his daughter is already somewhat aware of at the age of eleven, be that through his extravagant purchases, or the energy and money he puts into them having a “good time.” When, in a throwaway gesture, Calum buys an artisanal carpet he cannot afford, the act encapsulates so much of what has made the package holiday attractive and enjoyable to millions of Brits, with its pause on reality and the light-headedness induced as a result; with the way it allows for the imagining of alternative selves (see: henna tattoos, braided hair, the purchase of various leather goods). Wells’ narrative of parental love becomes a prism for the rarely seen, almost unprecedented spectacle that is created as a result: that of a decent man striving to become a better person under conditions that would seem to have made it difficult, if not impossible.

Calum is a man who belongs nowhere. Originally from Edinburgh, separated from the mother of his child and now living many hundreds of miles away in London, his vague references to a friend and business partner seem to suggest that he has followed the course laid out in the Blair years and beyond: of trailing after opportunities wherever they may arise. His travel library contains a poetry collection by the Scottish writer Margaret Tait, as well as practical guides to meditation and Tai Chi – the latter of which seems to point to Wells’ interest in the ways that societal failures are often transformed into matters of personal endurance and mental health. Calum is frequently shown practising Tai Chi, much to his daughter’s initial embarrassment, and the practice’s limited capacity in protecting him from the effects of his depression only lends the film a greater sadness.

Despite the candid camera elements used throughout (home video footage shot by the pair and rewatched by adult Sophie in the parts of the film set in the present), Wells’ story is not of course a verbatim account of events that took place in her own life, but a narrative creation that deliberately mounts a dialogue between past and present. This comes through particularly in moments where Calum is trying to navigate the tricky subject of dating. When discussing an ex-girlfriend with Sophie, or tentatively alluding to his crush on one of her teachers (“the pretty one,” as he refers to her), Calum is hesitant and uncertain in his speech, as if struggling to reconcile his desire for the pair to enjoy a degree of openness and candour, while also wanting to avoid sexist tropes. These instances have acquired greater poignancy in the years since their happening, on account of what we now collectively accept and understand, for instance, about the challenges of trying to normalise the act of dating in a single-parent household, but also trying to instil a sense of respect and reverence for women at a time when misogyny was still so widely accepted.

In a sense Calum’s journey is made to stand in for the odyssey of all modern men, something that is accentuated throughout the film by vague references to antiquity. Calum and Sophie’s holiday takes place in a resort that is walled off from its surroundings, but organised day trips bring them into contact with a local culture whose language, music and humour are unfamiliar. Sophie is able to give context to stories she has learned in school about Cleopatra – an innocent, gleeful connecting of dots that nevertheless sparks discomfort in Calum when the subject of suicide arises. The exchange also creates that vertiginous sensation one is prone to experience on holiday, of contemplating the world, its history and the sheer size of both, and – depending on the person’s disposition – a sense of just how small and insignificant we each are by comparison. Calum’s will not constitute one of the great lives scrutinised for millennia. If the tragic premise of Aftersun resides in Calum’s somewhat futile attempts to protect his daughter from his own suffering, then this plays out in the film’s portrayal of differences in perception. Sophie, whose needs are far more immediate and concrete than those of Calum, has not yet internalised the shame of thwarted ambition. The most frustrating aspect of the pair’s dynamic is the fact that Calum’s concern for his own performance as a man and parent prevents him from seeing what is most important – and the fact that his daughter might just be able to teach him more through example than all of the books he has packed combined.

This aspect of the film, and the delicate portrayal of how social and financial pressures impact the children of those at the sharp end of them, is what ultimately makes Aftersun so haunting and difficult to forget, as is the attempt by Wells to correct the sense of irrelevance that seems to plague Calum and, one can assume, the father she loved. It is a story of human endeavour unable to match the wider forces that surround it. It is a film that leaves me sad for what is shown, but relieved that narratives about mid-nineties holiday resorts, working class dads, the sexploits of the arcade, and three stripes Adidas, are being told with the respect and distanced humour they deserve.