When It Feels Good to Root for a Bad Guy

The Atlantic

3 days ago

This article features spoilers for the ending of Eddington.
The director Ari Aster specializes in bringing stress dreams to life: becoming plagued by a demonic curse, as seen in his debut film, Hereditary; joining an evil Scandinavian cult, in his follow-up, Midsommar; realizing a person's every fear, as occurs in the strange, picaresque Beau Is Afraid. But for his latest movie, Eddington, he turns to a more prosaic topic to get our blood running: the events of 2020. The film initially presents itself as a neo-Western, set in the small, fictional New Mexico town of Eddington at the beginning of the coronavirus pandemic. In true Aster form, the familiar portrait of that period—and the gnarly headspace it trapped many of us in—disintegrates into something disturbingly surreal. The film dramatizes this downward spiral through the experience of a man consumed by anxiety about how his community is shifting around him. Lockdown may have driven some people to question one another's reality; Eddington 's protagonist, however, seeks control of his—with violent and gory results.
In interviews about his inspirations, Aster has invoked John Ford's masterpiece My Darling Clementine, a bittersweet retelling of the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. But what I thought of more than anything while watching Eddington was Taxi Driver, a dark fable that's grounded in the point of view of a delusional maniac similarly defined by his paranoid, even conspiratorial, thinking. In the Martin Scorsese classic, Travis Bickle (played by Robert De Niro) lives out his fantasy of 'cleaning up' New York City by murdering a man who prostituted young girls in a brothel; the subsequent press coverage cements him as a folk hero, ending the film on a strange, bloodily triumphal note.
The local sheriff in Eddington, Joe Cross (Joaquin Phoenix), is the film's Bickle, though his final showdown is a far more absurd spectacle than the one in Taxi Driver. Aster's film is frightening, yes—but it's a dark and lacerating comedy first and foremost, playing out the power fantasies that fueled many an online conspiracy theory in the pandemic's early days (and still do now). And although Cross may not be as crushingly lonely as Bickle, he does share the character's escalating sense of paranoia. By plunging the viewer into this chaotic inner world, Aster illustrates the dissonant appeal of being enmeshed in the perspective of, and maybe even rooting for, an individual committed to their belief in justice—even if that commitment can border on sordid.
Each of Aster's movies descends into chaos by its third act, but the bloodbath at the end of Eddington is particularly challenging because of what precedes it: a recognizable, if satirical, investigation of life under lockdown. As such, the film is much more concerned with modern society than the director's past work, contorting the anxiety and extreme politicization that arose during the early pandemic to fit into Aster's strange world. Embodying those feelings is Cross, a lonely sheriff who eventually stands up to shadowy, destructive forces.
Eddington introduces its protagonist in much more mundane fashion, however. Cross serves the town of Eddington as a useless figure of authority—a shiftless, asthmatic grump who mumbles complaints at lawbreakers and halfheartedly manages a staff of cops at his office. When the film starts, he is struggling to uphold the state-mandated quarantine regulations, which he rarely follows himself. Eventually, the viewer learns that Cross has a personal connection to the position; his father-in-law once held it, and his tenure is still revered by both his family and his community. But Cross can hardly keep up with his job's basic tasks, let alone the kind of slick change represented by the person often challenging his control over Eddington: its mayor, Ted Garcia (Pedro Pascal).
Garcia, unlike Cross, is a friendly, tech-focused modernizer; he's backing the construction of a local data center that has proved divisive. Garcia and Cross's mutual disdain initially drives the film's tension: Garcia has some personal animosity with Cross that revolves around a rumored, long-ago dalliance withthe sheriff's wife, Louise (Emma Stone). Just as Garcia and Cross become fixated on each other, Louise develops an obsession with a seeming cult leader named Vernon Jefferson Peak (Austin Butler). Peak posts his elliptical wisdom in popular short-form videos that Louise affirms in the comments. Louise's mother, Dawn (Deirdre O'Connell), who lives with the Crosses, is similarly buying into questionable lines of thinking; she's constantly spouting misinformation about the origins of the pandemic, and parroting whatever else comes across her Facebook feed.
Eddington makes plenty of satirical sport of all the characters, including a swath of overly sensitive teenage protesters. But the rageful engine driving Cross's actions is more disquieting than simple family or small-town drama. In the simplest read of what happens next, Cross becomes a local celebrity of sorts. After an altercation with Garcia at a supermarket, instigated when the sheriff supports a customer refusing to wear a mask—and similarly goes without one, pointing to how it affects his asthma—Cross announces his own mayoral run. He campaigns on a vague populist platform of throwing unhoused people out of town and resisting COVID restrictions, posting his progressively more inflammatory screeds to Facebook. The ramblings go viral, pushing Cross into further confrontations with Garcia.
The sheriff's simmering anger, which reaches boiling point as a result of Eddington's growing air of claustrophobia and his own loosening grip on his life, leads to Cross assassinating Garcia. He kills Garcia's son too, and tries to cover up both murders by pinning the blame on a fellow cop. But as the sheriff's tangled web of lies begins to unravel—and his focus is diverted further away from the town—Eddington is besieged by frightening special-ops forces of unknown origin. The attack culminates in a bloody gun battle in the streets, and Cross barely survives; he emerges as a vigilante who has defended his community from, well, somebody. The film ends with Cross, now paralyzed and heavily medicated, functioning as the town's mayor. Unlike that of Taxi Driver 's Bickle, however, the sheriff's victory is a hollow one; his mother-in-law appears to have seized the real power behind the throne, rendering him more a puppet than an icon.
This turn of events offers a perfectly grim button to Cross's ridiculous hallucinations of grandeur. But it's also a reminder from Aster that for all the thrilling gunplay of Eddington 's final act, there is no real happy ending awaiting Cross. Eddington does not aim to be a simple tale of heroism, and its events are so outlandish that they are hard to take at face value. The movie, in its fullest expression, is a feverish swirl of the charged opinions that drove so many conversations during the pandemic's height—be they from the right, the left, or all the way on the fringe. The shadowy characters invading Eddington could be interpreted as a fascist hit squad or an antifa battalion; on-screen, they simply represent the nonsensical extremes that our internet-addled brains are capable of reaching. The uncomfortable result is that Aster at times seems to be challenging the audience to root for Cross, despite laying out all his buffoonery very plainly—because even the most composed person may have found the limits of their patience tested at some point during those strange, dark days.