Robin Hardy rolls in his grave

Rating: 4/10 (8 October 2019)

The latest attempt at a 21st century incarnation of The Wicker Man. It fails spectacularly, because the last person who knew how to do what Robin Hardy did in 1973 was Robin Hardy, and nobody ever had the decency to ask him. Also, he died in 2016.
Let's start with the good points: (a) cinematography; it's visually stunning, and Florence H. Pugh looks gorgeous; (b) music; it's bold, evocative, and atmospheric
Now the bad points: everything else.
There is no plot. Some people go to some place, some stuff happens, and then the movie ends. If you're looking for narrative, you won't find it here. Why? Because **** you, that's why.
'Plot' holes, poor characterisation, and general inconsistencies are glossed over like the eighth layer of varnish on your grandmother's piano. Why? Because **** you, that's why.
No attempt is made to develop a coherent belief system for the members of the Swedish cult. Why? Because **** you, that's why.
The cultists' religion is never presented in any systematic way. Its rituals and traditions are entirely arbitrary, and seemingly unrelated to each other. Looks like the scriptwriter said 'Let's just make them do a lot of weird stuff. The weirder the better, so we don't need to explain it.'
Why did they do this? Because the rituals don't need any significance. And why is that? Because they're just a vehicle for the violence, the sole purpose of which is to shock the audience. But the turgid predictability of the screenplay kills any latent tension, so there is no shock at all, and the violence is just boring.
The critical failing of this movie is its lack of a clear protagonist. The original Wicker Man had a powerful plot driven by a strong protagonist, an even stronger antagonist, and the clash between their respective worldviews.
By contrast, Midsommar has... nothing. While its main characters do experience increasing discomfort, their worldview is accommodating to a fault, and yields at the slightest push. As the crazy mounts up on all sides, they continue to rationalise it away in the name of political correctness. This robs Midsommar of an ideological collision; the very motif that worked so well in Hardy's film.
Apparently Swedish cultists use jazz hands instead of clapping, because of course they do. Let's borrow one of the dumbest idea from American social justice warrior culture, and shove it into a movie based in northern Europe. Great stuff.
I rate Midsommar at 13.32 on the Haglee Scale, which works out as a shockingly flawed and highly derivative 4/10 on IMDB (2 points for cinematography, 1 for music, and 1 for Florence H. Pugh).