After the back-to-back success of Hereditary and Midsommar, Ari Aster was quickly crowned the next big voice in horror. But like Nicolas Winding Refn (Drive) and David Robert Mitchell (It Follows), the praise might’ve come a little too soon—and gone straight to his head. No matter how you felt about Beau Is Afraid, Eddington is where the cracks become undeniable. Aster’s reach now clearly exceeds his grasp, letting ambition steer the ship straight into incoherence. The film is packed with ideas, but without the clarity or control to make any of them land—resulting in self-indulgence and, ultimately, something deeply unappealing.
If Beau at least offered a strong first act before spiraling out, Eddington stumbles right from the start. It never settles into a rhythm. The tone constantly shifts, and storylines come and go without leaving a mark. By the time the film reaches its epilogue, it’s scrambling to tie together a mess that never had structure to begin with.
Set during the early days of the pandemic, Eddington wants to satirize how people responded. But despite its prestige packaging—145 minutes, a stacked cast—it doesn’t say much more than The Bubble, Judd Apatow’s much-criticized pandemic comedy, also starring Pedro Pascal. The difference is that Aster truly believes he’s being deep.
His depiction of pandemic life feels like it’s coming from someone who didn’t fully live through it. It’s as if the film was reconstructed from headlines—then promptly forgot what it was trying to say. It gestures toward everything—misinformation, paranoia, political division—but commits to nothing. Trump flickers across TVs and Instagram feeds like background noise, just in case we didn’t get the point. Aster claims neutrality, but it reads more like indecision. The film shouts about its own importance while being oddly unsure of its message.
That lack of direction carries over into the storytelling. Plotlines are picked up and dropped—the mayoral race, the investigation, the marriage—none of them resolved, all of them blurry. Even the third act, which tries to narrow the focus, keeps juggling too many threads. One shootout is genuinely excellent—tight, tense, and finally something Aster seems to control. But it only highlights how shapeless the rest of the film is.
The cast does what they can to ground the chaos. Joaquin Phoenix throws himself into the role—committed, full frontal and all—but the character is too passive, inconsistent, and confused to land. Pedro Pascal is fine but forgettable. Emma Stone doesn’t have much to work with. Austin Butler, in just a few scenes, leaves an impression. It’s a shame the film doesn’t spend more time with these actors and instead veers off into teen protest arcs and side plots that lead nowhere. Entire subplots—the boardroom scenes, the homeless man, the birthday invasion, and, honestly, even the supposed emotional payoff about Phoenix wanting to take Pascal’s place—could’ve been cut without making a difference.
Some might argue that the messiness is the point—that it reflects the chaos of the time. Maybe. I doubt it. But even if that’s true, Eddington doesn’t have the insight to justify the sprawl. It’s too vague to feel thoughtful, too scattered to leave a mark, and too toothless to justify its length.
Ari Aster is clearly talented. But he’s no Robert Altman. (Imagine, for a second, what Altman in his 1970s peak could’ve done with this premise.) It’s time to scale back. Less chaos. More control. And maybe, next time, let someone else co-write the script.