Hereditary

Hereditary (2018; dir. Ari Aster) begins with a shot of what appears to be a miniature home with the outer walls removed.  As the camera moves in you see the contents of each room, small models of people engaged in various activities.  Gradually you realize that the small figures of people are real, and that the film will be about them.  The opening shot suggests an attitude of clinical remove, of objectivity, and the early scenes—for at least the film’s first half—indicate that this is a domestic psychological drama of how a family responds to the death of its members—a grandmother known for being cold and strange, and then a thirteen-year old daughter whose large eyes and disjointed and alienated behavior suggests not only something amiss with her but with the family as a whole.  Has she been abused? Is her mother—clearly on the edge of breakdown throughout the film—the source of her dysfunctionality? But then the girl dies in a horrible accident, in a car driven by her brother, who is slightly older.  He feels guilt.  He believes his mother hates him.  The father, obviously irritated with and estranged from his wife, has no role at all.  This is a family without a father even though the father is there, and a family with a mother who, although she is present, might as well not be.  When various people think they are seeing things—spirits or visions—we think to ourselves that these are psychological projections, the projections of family members in torment. This is especially suggested by the fact that the mother is the builder of the model house we see at the film’s beginning.  Does she control what happens? Is it all in her head?

No.  The film segues into the supernatural: witches, devil worship, possession, the search for the ninth king of hell.  His name is Paimon. Literally.  What began as an intriguing film devolves into hackneyed horror. But at least for long stretches, Hereditary is skillfully, ingeniously fashioned.