Think of the most horrifying nightmare you’ve ever had. One that woke you up in a cold sweat and freaked you out so bad that you couldn’t even enjoy your delectable morning bowl of Lucky Charms. That right there? That nightmare is Ari Aster’s wet dream. He’s sick, twisted and brilliant.

The grand narrative of grief as only a sequential, paralyzing melancholy is outdated. Its rewrite as an inspiring, if not painful, mania is past due.