The shot that stays with me: Calum standing at the edge of a Turkish resort pool at night, the water lit an unsettled blue, a video camera pointed at nothing in particular. Aftersun, Charlotte Wells, 2022. He's framing something he won't look at directly. That's the film's whole grammar — oblique angles, domestic videotape grain pressing against the digital image as though memory can't quite settle on a single format.

I saw it last night at Cinema Nova, alone in a Thursday evening session, about eight rows back. The screen felt exactly the right size — not wide enough to be spectacular, just wide enough to feel observed. Gregory Oke's cinematography keeps a strange, considered distance from its subjects: handheld but not agitated, as if the camera is trying not to intrude on something it has already interrupted.

The pacing is unhurried in the way that Turkish holiday afternoons actually are. Long stretches of not much happening, then a cut that lands sideways. Wells uses the interpolated camcorder footage less as flashback than as texture — a bleached, slightly overexposed warmth that the main image doesn't reach for, a different register of the same time.

What the film is not trying to do: it isn't building toward revelation. The ellipses are permanent; they don't fill in. I read Sophie's fragments, as an adult, less as recovered memory than as the attempt to construct a person she didn't fully see while she was there. That's honest, and genuinely sad, without performing either quality.

The closing sequence gives me pause. It's formally striking — I understand its logic — but it tips slightly toward the interpretive, telling me something the earlier film had trusted me to sense on my own. A small misstep in an otherwise careful work. I'll see it again before I decide.

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