by Tim Gordon
With Eddington, Ari Aster trades in cults and familial horror for the prickly terrain of America’s pandemic paranoia, setting his latest tale in the barren expanses of rural New Mexico at the height of COVID-19 and social unrest. But while his signature unease and pitch-black humor are present, they’re lost in a swirling sandstorm of competing ideas and tonal chaos.
Set in May 2020, Eddington pits a small town against itself when Sheriff Joe Cross (Joaquin Phoenix) and Mayor Ted Garcia (Pedro Pascal) lock horns over lockdown measures and civic authority. As tensions escalate, neighbor turns on neighbor, conspiracies fester, and the dusty streets become a microcosm for America’s fractured soul.
On paper, it’s an electric setup, the perfect blend of Aster’s flair for dread and a Western standoff reimagined for the 21st century. But the execution? Well, that’s another story.
Phoenix reunites with Aster for the first time since Beau Is Afraid, delivering the sort of method-immersive performance audiences expect from him. His Sheriff Cross is a coiled spring of paranoia, pride, and unraveling masculinity, the kind of small-town lawman who sees the world through a cracked lens. Beside him, Pascal’s Mayor Garcia oozes political doublespeak, slyly channeling the smug opportunism that fueled so much real-life discord in 2020. It’s a pairing that should spark cinematic fireworks. Instead, they’re often trapped in Aster’s swirling monologues and chaotic tonal shifts, never quite landing the satirical gut punch he seems to be swinging for.
The supporting cast, including Emma Stone, Austin Butler, Luke Grimes, and Micheal Ward, drifts through the plot like ghostly echoes of broader social archetypes: the anti-masker, the armchair revolutionary, the conspiracy theorist. They pop in for acidic barbs and nervy stand-offs but rarely develop beyond stand-ins for the American psyche under quarantine.
There are flashes of brilliance buried in the dust: moments where Aster’s uncomfortable close-ups and savage humor skewer the absurdity of backyard militias and neighborhood surveillance. His eye for the sinister in the mundane remains potent: empty supermarket shelves, weaponized gossip, a porch light flickering ominously as trust dissolves into vigilantism.
But Eddington wants to be too many things: a satirical black comedy, a pandemic morality play, a modern-day frontier showdown, a commentary on how America’s open wounds were ripped wide in 2020. The result is a tonally scattershot film, veering from Coen Brothers-esque absurdism to somber social critique without the narrative cohesion to bind it all together. Scenes drag out their discomfort but rarely build toward anything satisfying; they feel more like individual sketches than pieces of a larger statement.
To his credit, Aster is swinging for the fences. He’s unafraid to tackle America’s darkest impulses head-on, but he loses the plot in the noise. There’s no sense of catharsis here, no moment that brings the film’s swirling ideas into sharp relief. By the final shot, Eddington feels like an exasperated sigh, a portrait of division that mirrors the confusion and exhaustion of its moment but offers little new perspective on it.
Phoenix and Pascal do their best to keep this modern-day High Noon alive. Phoenix’s trademark intensity and Pascal’s sly charisma are watchable, even when the script ties them up in meandering philosophical knots. But their performances alone can’t salvage a film that feels more like a scattered think-piece than a coherent work of art.
In the end, Eddington is less a searing satire than a cautionary tale about what happens when even the boldest filmmakers let ambition run amok. In trying to distill the chaos of an era defined by fear, anger, and misinformation, Aster delivers a film that’s every bit as fractured as the world it portrays.
Grade: D
