Missing Figure: An Exploration of Aftersun (2022)

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

On a 9-hour flight from Rio de Janeiro to Lisbon, my mom unexpectedly decided to watch the newly-released movie, Aftersun. The critically acclaimed A24 picture was one of my favorite movies of the year, which I had rewatched and analyzed thoroughly since its release. I sat in anticipation for her verdict, questioning if she would enjoy the movie's atypical format, or minimum-plot storytelling, let alone if she would cry as I had at the movie theater. She didn't. She only had one thing to say: "If they had made a movie about me and my dad it would have been just as, if not more, desolating." Her comment, albeit simple and short, lingered in my mind for the following 6 hours of the flight. Had my mom understood the picture better than I, seeing as me and my dad have always been close? Did she see herself in the figure of Sophie, a small girl looking back at the time spent with her absent father? Moreover, what was it about Charlotte Well's Oscar-nominated work that made it so relatable? The answer to those questions became clear as I leafed through old family albums: It lies within the universal attempt to reconstruct the puzzle of what, and why, something from our past is now missing in our lives. It lies within the missing figure.

Aftersun follows Calum, played by Normal People actor Paul Mescal, and Sophie, played by the child actress Frankie Corio, as they spend a week of summer vacation in Turkey. Calum is a young single father, not older than 35, of Sophie, an 11-year-old who lives with her mom in Scotland. Set in the late 1990s, the week of vacation is often interrupted by short takes of the present, with a 30-year-old Sophie looking back at her vacation in the Mediterranean through tapes. She centers her reflections on Calum, who is often mistaken to be Sophie's brother and is struggling to embody the role of a father. In between swims and trips to tourist spots, Sophie films her dad with a little camera, the same one she would look back on 20 years later. Wells showcases the week of vacation in Turkey without utilising a traditional plot style, playing with mundane dialogues and a realistic story progression. The director herself said in a Vanity Fair interview that the movie "is not easy to describe, but powerful to behold." Through a format where nothing is revealed explicitly, the audience grasps from the get-go that this specific vacation was, the last time Sophie saw her dad.

The movie begins with the sound of a camera whirring and beeping. An adjustment of zooms and focus that soon is complemented by a 90s style video recording of Calum folding clothes in the hotel room. The tape is filmed by Sophie, who comments on her recent birthday, and proceeds to ask her dad: "When you were 11 what did you think you would be doing now?" Sophie's camera whirs again and Calum, answerless, fades. The scene cuts and the movie properly begins. It is exposed, from the first scene, that there is a distance between the dad and the daughter, a feeling of nostalgia that is embedded in the faint background song and camera quality. The audience understands, then, that the movie is merely Sophie's memory. As she rewatches the tapes, and those are revealed to the viewer, the frustration of the daughter becomes clear: she desperately wants to peel the emotional layers of their last week together, looking through its content at the same age her father was when he left her. She is realizing things that her younger self would have never placed: she looks for signs of her dad's depression, indications that his well-being was in jeopardy; any warning that he would eventually fade from her life. It is hard to pinpoint within the narrative precisely what is a flashback, a dream, or simply an imagined piece that the narrator has tried to locate in the puzzle of her memory.

Sophie sees a hurt father, a figure that spends half of the movie with an arm cast, and the other half with mysterious scars. When she asks him how he hurt his wrist, he replies "I didn't think it was broken." Co-Director Barry Jerkins (known for his work on Oscar-Winning Moonlight) comments that Wells, in Aftersun, is "wading through wells of quiet anguish." Calum's pain is not simply physical; he cries while taking off his plaster, but he does so with a wall dividing him and Sophie; he shows no perspective for the future, in fact, he claims to be surprised he made it to 30; he condemns smokers in front of his daughter, but quietly lights a cigarette in the room balcony as she sleeps. The nuance of his suffering, one that he so strongly tried to conceal from Sophie, becomes clear to her as time passes, and as she reaches the age of 30. 

There is no explanation for Calum's whereabouts – one could infer that he took his own life, or that he simply left Sophie's life without any explanation. All that is clear is that the girl tries to fill in the blanks not shown by the tapes. When her dad is not found in the room at night and appears in the morning with a huge scar, she imagines him going for a nocturnal swim. When she looks back at his lack of emotion during birthday celebrations on the trip, she pictures him sobbing alone in the hotel room. She produces a film of their vacation with tapes from her actual camera and tapes of what young Sophie jokingly calls "her little mind camera." 

The film reaches its climax not in any particular point of conflict, nor in any enthralling revelation. Rather it happens as Calum invites Sophie to dance to "Under Pressure" by David Bowie and Queen. As he awkwardly exhibits his dance moves, white lights flash to the sound of Bowie singing "this is our last dance." Young Sophie dances with her dad, and as the flashes occur we see older Sophie screaming. It is not clear if she is screaming at her dad out of frustration, or at her younger self, who did not realize that was their last dance, their last moment of intimacy. 

In the last scene of the movie, Calum films Sophie as she enters the boarding area of the airport. He closes the camera and walks into an unknown door. The recording comes to an end.

Charlotte Well's work is undoubtedly one of the best releases of the last few years. It is an ode to memory, aging, and above all, an expression of grief. It is through her mundane, but nonetheless anguished and nostalgic portrayal of the relationship between a father and a child that makes my mom, myself, and millions of other viewers consider this movie relatable. Her search for her dad through her memories is a natural reaction, a universal attempt to bring pieces together and seek solace in the unfathomable. As Sophie herself puts it, it is comforting to know "that even if we aren’t in the same place, we kind of are, you know? We’re, like, under the same sky."