Esther Rosenfield’s review published on Letterboxd:
This is the product of modern cinema's least interesting artist showing us the darkest corners of his mind, where nothing dwells but insanely plodding conversations and deeply unimaginative staging. Aster seems to work at only two speeds: zero miles-per-hour and Dragon Ball Z instant transmission. If he's not letting a scene drag on endlessly, lingering over every painfully long gap in the insipid dialogue, he's cutting away from it abruptly, as if that abruptness is somehow in itself shocking or tense. The few elements of this film that manage to approach "scary" or "disturbing" are all shamelessly stolen from the show Hannibal. The rest is unconscionably boring. And what does it have to say about "trauma" other than absolutely fucking nothing? The movie's entire thesis is "dang why are women crying all the time, that's fucking weird, why do they do that shit" like some 90s stand-up comedian making a Lars von Trier movie. I am in genuine awe of how comprehensively unwatchable this thing is. Ari Aster should be pushed out to sea on a raft. Fuck this garbage.