Eddington
Written and directed by Ari Aster
A24 Films
A rambling, incoherent man walks the deserts of New Mexico, speaking to himself and moving toward the small town of Eddington. As he descends into the valley, he unintentionally sets off a tinderbox of violence, false accusations, and conspiracy theories that create nothing but hatred and yelling.
In an age when political violence and partisan radicalization are running rampant, a movie like Eddington feels like an open rupture. It’s a brutally uncomfortable arthouse neo-Western that stares into our social media-driven culture of rage and struggles to find humanity amid the total depravity of its premise.
This is certainly no shocking feat for director Ari Aster, whose growing filmography, including Hereditary, Midsommar, and Beau Is Afraid, has shown he is a singularly talented voice. As Martin Scorsese has repeatedly argued, Aster represents “one of the most extraordinary new voices in cinema,” with his latest film representing the realities of an America where “no one wants to listen to anyone else, which is frightening.”
Set against the chaos of 2020, a rural New Mexico town descends into chaos as Sheriff Joe Cross begins chafing against his state’s mask mandates and social distancing. Frustrated with his leaders and stressful home life, he launches a campaign to replace the progressive Mayor Ted Garcia, which escalates into anti-police protests, cold-blooded murders, and terrorist attacks.
Eddington is a film with very few good characters. Even the nominally better people are crooked, cynical, and self-serving men with ulterior motives. Its nominal protagonist is a man willing to compromise the truth, who surrounds himself with casual racists and conspiracy theorists.
Leaning into a dark comic tone, the movie constantly undermines its protagonists and antagonists alike to maximize the absurdity. It’s filled with dark little moments of irony and hypocrisy. One teenage character plays up his progressive credentials to impress a young activist. White protesters lecture a Black cop about his allegiance. White activists give loud speeches about why the protesters should be quiet and listen.
Just as these events were sparked by one rambling homeless man’s incoherent rants, the movie captures the hypocrisy and incoherence of its characters at every level. The misunderstandings and resentments from the outset could’ve been resolved, but they weren’t. They fester and feed into an absurd cycle of lies and violence. Much like COVID, it seeps into a community and slowly unravels everything it touches. Rage spreads like a disease.
Eddington plays very differently in the weeks after several prominent acts of political violence and free speech dustups. Premiering in July, it might have remained an uncomfortable reminder of the pandemic. But five years after COVID’s beginning, the ruptures that made those years painful haven’t healed. Killing and hatred are becoming more normal. People treat violence as a deterministic inevitability. Talking is becoming more difficult.
A film like Eddington reminds the viewer that grace and unity continue to feel far away in this world. It’s a near-documentary of the depraved state of the world, and one that offers few solutions or hope that things will improve. However, despair is a sin, and the absurdity of its premise provides opportunities for any viewers willing to engage with the nuance of this film to consider where they can be humble amid our dilemmas.
Tyler Hummel is a freelance writer based in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin.
