In 1973 a demonic figure by the name of Pazuzu turned the satanic possession of a young girl into the permanent possession of a horror subgenre. Nothing, neither jerky camera jitters nor flashy 3d behemoth, can compare to the institution that is The Exorcist, the most iconic horror film of all time. With a backstory as creepy as its plot, a gross of over half a billion dollars, and a tantalising blacklisting by the Irish film censors till 1990, it has occupied a reference point in every occult film, and irrevocably damaged the sales of pea soup, for nearly 40 years. And so, when it comes to The Rite, Swedish director Mikael Håfström’s exorcising thriller, it’s hard not to think that the spectre of the 70s shocker looms heavily over proceedings.
And like so many other exorcism horrors, The Rite aims to seize the audience’s interests by claiming to be based on true events, even going so far as to assert papal and literary credentials in its opening credits. The story revolves around rising Drogheda star Colin O’Donoghue as Michael Kovak, an American seminarian whose chilly upbringing in his father’s mortuary makes the Six Feet Under family seem positively wholesome. Escaping to religious life, Michael excels in his studies, yet his faith is never quite so certain. In order to win him back to the flock, his teacher, a game Toby Jones, sends him off to Rome, to learn how to be an exorcist, with the hope that casting out demons in others will help free Kovak of his own.
In the Vatican, he enters Exorcism 101, taught by a very crabby Ciarán Hinds, where Kovac learns the basics of banishing Beelzebub’s brutes before being sent out into the field to observe renegade cleric Father Lucas. A hammy Anthony Hopkins is the eccentric priest, whose prayers and rosaries whip wickedness right back from whence it came. Hopkins is on typical form, in an unrestrained performance that mines new depths of campness with hammy aplomb, something akin to a Lecter at the lectern. His techniques of quiet vacancy one minute and histrionic frenzy the next are bemusing and enjoyable, but rarely scary.
The cast are all decent. O’Donoghue, in his first leading role, makes for a very watchable lead, though laboured with the doubting Thomas role. He’s po-faced throughout, unsure of what’s what and whether or not his pulpiteering pals are in fact puppeteers controlling patients with extreme psychological problems through religious hokum and ministerial mumbo jumbo. It is in these moments of doubt that the film and O’Donoghue are most assured, leading you down garden paths obscured by shifty shadows. Alice Braga continues to play whatever nationality Hollywood wants her to with gusto, and Italian newcomer Marta Gastini is hair-raising in an intense physical performance as a pregnant girl that makes Rosemary’s Baby look like Look Who’s Talking.
Håfström does bring things together with a strong visual style, turning out a Rome that is tacky, dark and dirty, with animals and reptiles posed as fiendish familiars all over. With skewed camera work and intense angles, there is a definite chill in the air, but this rarely translates into real scares, and it’s hard to go gothic when bound to a 16 certificate.
It’s fun, but not frightening, and really only the power of Christ could compel you to a second viewing.
3 Likes.
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