“Aftersun” is a film about memory burning, and it burns bright. Charlotte Wells, in her feature directorial debut, has made a movie that turns a single holiday into a lifetime of grief, love, and the quiet cracks in a relationship nobody wants to see. It is a small film, shot in a Turkish resort town, but its reach is enormous. It asks what it means to lose a parent, and what it means to be the child who could not save them.
The film opens with Sophie, now an adult, looking back at a video diary she made as a child. That diary, recorded on a MiniDV camera, runs through the story, cutting between the footage and the woman who remembers it. Sophie Patterson is played by Frankie Corio as the young girl and Celia Rowlson-Hall as the adult version. The split framing works beautifully. Corio is a revelation, giving a performance of such clarity and restraint that she feels like a real child rather than a character. Rowlson-Hall anchors the piece, carrying the weight of a woman who still carries the wound.
Paul Mescal plays Calum, Sophie’s father, a man who is falling apart in front of his daughter even as he tries to keep things whole. He is a Londoner who moved there after separating from Sophie’s mother. His age is never stated, but the film suggests he is in his early thirties, a man whose life has stalled while his daughter’s is just beginning. Mescal’s Calum is not a villain. He is a man who loves his daughter deeply and cannot find the strength to face himself. He practices tai chi, reads self-help books, and hides his smoking from her. He goes scuba diving and loses his daughter’s expensive mask, then pretends nothing happened. He buys a rug he wants, then lies to his wife about it. Every scene with him is a slow-motion disaster, and Mescal plays it with a patience that makes the collapse feel inevitable.
The supporting cast is small but effective. Brooklyn Toulson plays Michael, the boy Sophie meets at the arcade, and their kiss beside the pool is one of the film’s most tender moments. Spike Fearn, Harry Perdios, Ruby Thompson, and Ethan James Smith populate the resort as background figures, but they are not ciphers. They are the people Sophie observes, the ones who fill the gaps between her and her father. The film is also notable for its production design, which recreates the Turkish resort with a warmth that feels lived-in rather than staged.
Trailer, via A24.
Calum’s Secret Grief
The central relationship is the one between Sophie and Calum. The film spends most of its runtime showing Calum’s attempts to keep his troubles hidden. He smiles at the camera, jokes with Sophie, and carries on as though everything is fine. But the cracks show everywhere. He hides his smoking from her. He practices tai chi in secret. He reads self-help books that he never acts on. And when he goes scuba diving with Sophie, he loses her mask and pretends it is no big deal, though Sophie can sense his real feelings beneath the surface.
One scene stands out. Sophie and Calum go to a rug shop, and Calum sees a rug he likes. He hesitates, then decides against it. Later, he returns alone and buys it anyway. The act is small, but it speaks volumes about a man who cannot bring himself to admit to his wife that he wanted something. The next night, at karaoke, Sophie insists on singing with him, but Calum refuses. She sings “Losing My Religion” alone as he watches, and the song becomes a stand-in for the loss she feels.
The film’s structure is clever. It moves between the footage Sophie recorded and the woman she has become, a woman who is still trying to understand her father. The split-screen technique works especially well in a scene where adult Sophie watches herself as a child, her face changing from innocent curiosity to guarded suspicion. The film also uses flash-forwards and flashbacks to show how the events of the holiday shaped the adult Sophie. These moments are brief but powerful, showing how a single decision — a lie, a refusal, a moment of neglect — can ripple outward for decades.
Sophie’s Growing Up
Sophie is the film’s moral center. She is an eleven-year-old girl on the cusp of adolescence, full of curiosity and wonder, but also acutely aware that something is wrong with her father. She records everything, wanting to hold onto the trip, but she also senses that the holiday is not what it seems. She befriends Michael, a boy she meets at the arcade, and they kiss beside the pool. She hangs out with tourists she had previously met, playing pool and avoiding her father.
The film does not judge Sophie for her behavior. It shows her as a normal child, curious about the world around her, and it lets her make mistakes without turning her into a victim. Her relationship with Michael is handled with care. Their kiss is sweet and awkward, and the film does not linger on it. The focus stays on the bond between Sophie and her father, but the film also recognizes that Sophie needs connection outside the family, even as she remains devoted to Calum.
The Rug Shop Scene
Calum sees a rug he likes, hesitates, and walks away. Then he returns alone and buys it. The act is simple, but it says so much about a man who cannot admit to his wife that he wanted something. It is a moment of quiet rebellion, and it sets the tone for the rest of the film. Calum is a man who hides his feelings, and the rug is a symbol of that hiding. He buys it in secret, and the film leaves the consequences unspoken, letting the audience fill in the blanks.
The scene also ties into the film’s larger theme of memory and loss. Sophie records the holiday on her camera, but the footage is incomplete. There are gaps, and the film uses those gaps to show what is missing. The rug shop scene is one of those gaps, and the film’s structure forces the audience to imagine what happened. This is a film about what we remember and what we forget, and the rug shop scene is a perfect example of that tension.
The Karaoke Night
Karaoke is a ritual of public shame, and the film uses it to expose Calum’s inner turmoil. Sophie insists on singing with him, but Calum refuses. He sits at the table while Sophie performs “Losing My Religion” alone. The song is a strange choice, but it fits. Sophie is losing her father, bit by bit, and the music captures that grief. Calum watches her, and the look on his face is one of pride mixed with terror. He is proud of her, but he is also terrified that she is growing up and leaving him behind.
The scene is a turning point in the film. Sophie’s insistence on singing with him forces Calum to confront his own feelings. He has spent the entire holiday pretending everything is fine, but the karaoke night breaks that pretense. He cannot sing with her, and he cannot hide from her anymore. The scene is a moment of truth, and it sets the stage for the reconciliation that comes later.
The Mud Baths Reconciliation
The film ends with a reconciliation between Sophie and Calum, but it is a bittersweet one. They travel to the mud baths together, and Calum apologizes for his behavior. The apology is genuine, but it is too late. The damage has been done, and the film does not pretend otherwise. The reconciliation is a moment of grace, but it is also a reminder of the distance between them. Sophie has grown up, and Calum has aged, and they will never be the same again.
Memory burns.
That is the tagline, and it sums up the film’s thesis. Memory is not a safe haven. It is a fire that consumes everything it touches. The film shows this through its structure, which moves between the past and the present, and through its performances, which are uniformly excellent. Corio and Mescal are the center of the film, but the entire cast supports them, creating a world that feels lived-in and specific.
The film is not without flaws. Some scenes drag, particularly in the middle, where the pacing slows down. The rug shop scene is brilliant, but it is followed by a stretch where the film meanders. The film also relies heavily on the split-screen technique, and some viewers might find it repetitive. However, these are minor complaints. The film’s strengths far outweigh its weaknesses, and it remains a powerful, moving piece of work.
The Final Verdict
“Aftersun” is a film about the fragility of love and the permanence of loss. It is a film about the way we remember people, and the way those memories shape us. It is a film about the things we keep hidden, and the things we cannot hide. It is a film about the distance between a father and a daughter, and the bridge they build across that distance.
The film is a triumph of direction, screenplay, and performance. Wells has crafted a delicate, heartbreaking story, and she has executed it with a precision that is rare in cinema. The film is a masterpiece of restraint, and it rewards careful attention. It is a film that will stay with you long after you leave the theater.
It is a film about memory, and memory burns.
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