We snag exorcism films time and again—like toiletries from hotels.
Post-The Exorcist, the sub-genre maintains only a shy list of films that actually carry weight: Scott Derrickson ponders on the subject in his 2005 quasi-doc The Exorcism of Emily Rose; and Adam Robitel furthers the conversation on exorcism with an elderly woman diagnosed with Alzheimer’s showing signs of demonic possession (The Taking of Deborah Logan). Tikoy Aguiluz, meanwhile, with his recent film Tragic Theater, makes parallel tales of body invasion—of both the physical and spiritual—but, for everyone who nobly endured it, ultimately fails. The thing that underscores all three examples is their closeness to their religious themes despite their individual agendas. This in my book is where Friedkin triumphs.
I can’t say the same for Mark Neveldine’s new film—called The Vatican Tapes, mainly because Lars von Trier has already taken Antichrist (and the world is better off!). For the most part it tries to become a stripped-down, technophobic iteration of the 70’s horror classic. And I had hoped this vision held true, because now is the timeliest of times. No time is more perfect. However, the closest thing to technophobia that the film offers is a mere panning shot of multiple screens showing the rising Anti-Christ, babbling all sorts of ballyhoos that bring in, well, hell-raising book sales.
Stylistically, the film veers away from the manic energy that flurries through Crank, a film that Neveldine made with his creative partner Brian Taylor some years ago. It’s strange sitting to watch him work on an almost eerie soundlessness that, while welcome, renders the viewer this sense of discordance. You almost know that Neveldine is excited to spin Friedkin’s infamous vomiting scene, and for a moment I was rooting for it, those potentially glorious b-movie moments that sadly has become such an unfortunate rarity these days. You would think that’s what Neveldine will do, whose previous film is the notoriously campy Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance. No luck in seeing that crazy wildfire here (that is, unless you count those Trinity Eggs—awful bargain!), but if and when it comes to a self-knowing exorcism film, I imagine myself channeling Fred Astaire and—spiritually—dancing.
The film opens, as most exorcism films do, with the Host. The Basilica boots up a two-desktop workspace—a thing of M:I films, I tell you!—and watches a case of demonic possession from the United States. The name of the host is, you guessed it, Angela. She’s pretty, kind and from Los Angeles, for however that fits so it’s relevant. There’s a video of her talking to someone in a very un-L.A. manner. So, Neveldine does what is right: he rounds back three months prior the affliction, hopefully to bring some light to the situation. Her father visits her and her live-in boyfriend, and there commences a string of supernatural occurrences. Of the reason why the Anti-Christ singles out Angela, alas, Neveldine touches only briefly.
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It makes sense, though. At least to me. Olivia Taylor Dudley—on her own is a deus ex machina, whose appearance is a splice between Taylor Schilling and Kristen Stewart’s, and whose sharpness recalls that of, dare I say, Sarah Gadon—portrays Angela with grace, a thankless task in the end what with the scattershot script-work (by Christopher Borrelli and Michael C. Martin) and thin characterization.
Michael Peña, similarly, tries his best to add texture to his thinly-written ex-military priest. There seems an active disavowal to characterization in the film because no layers are peeled through all its ninety minutes. When asked what tipped him to leave the service and put on the cloth, he says “when I saw enough.” Of what? The film’s exorcist—essentially a stand-in for Max von Sydow’s Lankester Merrin and here portrayed by Peter Andersson, delightful in the role—has his own methods. And tool luggage, comprised curiously by one too many Apple products. You ponder what he means when he says sometimes the key to a good day of exorcism is “moving away from God.”
These little quirks circle back to Neveldine’s notoriously frenetic energy, which is here only faintly, exchanged for a fallacious restraint that renders the viewers a story about exorcism bereft of scare and personality. The burning question, however, is that if we are talking hotel complimentaries, will we be snagging it home? For the shy pleasure that it brings, The Vatican Tapes doesn’t feel worth committing the crime.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yelog-WwqD4
