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Vol. 2 Issue 9: The Man in the Maze

In this Weeks Issue: Page 1-Stop Me If You Think You've Heard This One Before The most commercially accepted perverted auteur is back with his latest, The Killer. Available on Netflix as we speak so there's no excuse for missing this one. We see him reunited with Seven scriptwriter Andrew Kevin Walker but why does it come off more like Fight Club? Fincher's firing shots off at socially alienated losers who listen to The Smiths and also himself turning this in to an auto critique piece. He's not been this humorous for a while. Is it as sharp and of the moment as Fight Club was though? He uses Melville's Le Samourai as a model to contain his ideas but have we seen this before?

Page 6-The Irresistible Charm of The Driver A review of Nicholas Winding Refn's Drive, written sometime during my last year living in Sheffield, in the midst of reading a lot of Mark Fisher and deciding to take a step back from social media for a period. Finding the comedy in the irresistible charm of The Driver. Dug back up now after seeing David Fincher's The Killer. More than a few comparisons can be made. At this point, I'm unsure whether this has been included in this issue to highlight the failings of The Killer or what it has the potential to come given time. We certainly seem more on the ball in recognising the humour within these characters and are expressing a greater ability to mock ourselves.

Page 10-The Exorcist Movie with NO Exorcist Here's one you haven't heard before, an exorcist movie with no exorcist in it. A downright travesty. After defending David Gordon Green throughout his much loathed Halloween trilogy, The Exorcist: Believer feels like a real slap in the face. A very uninspired and undefendable piece of rubbish. Is it really anti-abortion? Does it cheaply use real disasters? Does it have anything on its mind? Can David Gordon Green maintain sonic and visual beauty in spite of narrative short comings? A disappointed Kelly and Ricardo Carvalho go on a night out in town to drown their sorrows, which leads to a meeting with the man in the maze.

Stop Me If You Think You've Heard This One Before Stop me if you think you've heard this one before but when did you last say goodbye to The Smiths? Was it when Morrissey ousted himself as the face of British far right party UKIP and the true heir to Nigel Farage? Spouting all that shit about tighter borders and keeping the foreigners out. Going from serious lyricist to serious racist. As bad as these events were to me these are the least of his crimes. Above that, he needs to stand trial for being a miserable bastard in need of lightening up. The phrase, "touch grass", is one that can be applied to Morrissey's despicable antics. Puts a serious downer on Johnny Marr's otherwise generally pleasant jangly guitar work. And I know what you're going to say right, it's all about the contrast of the two? No. How can I back this take when I find Morrissey's contributions to the songs utterly insufferable? One half is good and the others shite. That's the truth. Why is it that The Smiths critics label them as a "student band", when in actuality Morrissey's "poetry" could probably make a sixth former cringe? If you get the urge to hit play on David Fincher's latest offering, The Killer, currently streaming on Netflix, be careful, be careful. I come bearing great warning like Takashi Miike in Hostel. You may get more than you bargained for. You may come out wanting to give The Smiths another shot. Ladies and gentlemen, a sickness is spreading Do not underestimate the power of ironic championing. This is the key to conversion. It starts off as this grand joke and next things it's tolerable. I'm glad more people don't know this is man's greatest weakness. For who doesn't appreciate a good joke? Don't fall for it. Don't even let it in. Keep you damn doors shut. Throw up a no canvassing sign if you have to. Not in this neighbourhood! We shall not be overrun. Mr Fincher almost led your least favourite film critic astray with his devious methods and Smiths records but I am here stronger than ever to ward off those evil spirits that seek to take our bodies over like it's The Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Now that warning is out the way, we can begin this fucking review.

Ok, so the opening chapter which takes up a good 20 minutes of the run time could work as a superb short film in itself. Perfectly depicting the boredom of one man's routine as he lines up his kill shot. Yoga exercises, naps and coffees are how he fills his time. To relax he listens to his favourite band The Smiths just so if you didn't get the message this guys a total fucking loser, you've got it now. Excellent use of music that really parodies the whole fan base. Smiths fans, don't take it personally, Fincher's even taking shots at himself. Here we get the man at his most personal turning to auto criticism. He compares himself to the role of an assassin, planning out technical compositions and set pieces like actual murders. A consequence of this obsession with diving in to the imagination. The tagline is literally, "execution is everything", it couldn't be any more on the nose. This comparison between murder and auteur is hardly new ground. Hitchcock had this all figured out way before anyone else. All his greatest students today like Fincher, Park Chan Wook, and Steven Soderbergh are merely continuing his way of life. Personally, I don't fully relate to this image. For me, as I discovered in last month's issue, I'm more of a TV cop like those depicted in 80s hit show Miami Vice. I have not been as others were-I have not seen as others saw. It's look but don't touch. Observing this life from afar but never being part of it. Never experiencing it. Dabbling now and then but never committing. Nothing but undercover stings and illusions. Brief but passionate encounters. left with this overwhelming sense of longing. Living amongst unresolved cases gathering in dust. Every time an issue is dealt with, another one pops up like Whack-A-Mole. Wanting to retire from the life and throw that badge so hard in to the sea but holding on to centuries of tradition because if I don’t no-one will.

Fincher wants us to know he's seen Le Samourai (a hitman movie about a loner carrying the samurai spirit in the modern day) and that he can play this strictly anti narrative and away from all the cliches. In all honesty, I don't even know if I care that much for Le Samourai. I know it's meant to be quiet and reserved but it didn't instantly stand out to me like Melville's other films such as Le Circle Rouge, Le Deuxieme Souffle and Le Doulos.

It was intriguing to watch my father, a real no nonsense man with an affinity for action movies, throughout this opening sequence. He was strained to the edge of his tolerance in this section, stating that he was, "almost getting bored", but it didn't lose him. He would end up hating the rest of the movie but agreeing this early part was actually fresh in approach. What total mastery from Fincher to make such a powerful statement on the sense of boredom in the character's life whilst never losing his most impatient viewer. Takes some doing. My respect for him lies as always with his ability to mix arthouse and mainstream cinema. Zodiac was always arthouse disguised as blockbuster after all. He puts bums on seats, then once they're in, he strains viewers to the edge but has this peculiar power to retain them through dark and dirty water.

Perhaps it could reward with revisits but currently it's more like a template movie or shorthand expression, which respectably came first but was far surpassed by those who emulate the formula. It's the same for Shane and the far better The Guest and Pale Rider but in this case Le Samourai was improved by the likes of Thief, Drive, Taxi Driver and Ghost Dog. Never understood too well the appeal of Le Samourai. To understand Melville is to realise he's deeply flawed as a filmmaker but it's his passion for pulp that overcomes it. So why do we champion his most serious arthouse movie so highly?

Finally, after numerous attempts from the assassin to set up his shot, we get to the big fat kill. The technique on display here should be studied by all. The Smiths How Soon Is Now increases and decreases in volume based on whether we are watching the assassin load up his weapon or aim down the sights. Essentially, if we are experiencing the scene from the killer's perspective the music is in our ears too on full blast and when we watch him preparing, we hear the spill from the headphones. It's very clever storytelling, using sound as a POV shot.

Luckily, in this opening section, Fincher offers some of his own ideas that are highly unique and weird. The Killer reunites him with Seven writer Andrew Kevin Walker but it's a collaboration that asks more questions than it answers. Why does it feel like it has more in common with the satire of Fight Club than the sin of Seven. Fight Club was the last time Fincher got this hilarious and I welcome the return of the humour.

When I heap praise on to The Killer, it is mainly in technique. Unfortunately, there is little in substance to take it to the next level. I see little in the way of Fincher's zeitgeist studies of digital that made The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and The Social Network so relevant. If anything it's the opposite of that with the use of the outdated iPod. Is Fincher warning us of the dangers of digital catalogues that can be erased and reshaped against personal ownership? Didn't Nicholas Winding Refn do all this better in Drive with the whole social alienation in the internet age withdrawing in to our iPod's thing?

After the recent Mank, a weak but beautiful bashing of auteur theory from an auteur, it will have you wondering who's the author of his own films? Fincher is primarily known as a director with his critics attacking him because he can't write. Firstly, he writes with the camera, duh!, but I half wonder if he does contribute to this side because some of the narration has the same flavour as Fight Club. Part of the decision making process for this hitman is based on predictable consumer habits, quoting facts about brands such as Starbucks as readily as Fight Club.

After The Killer's disastrous attempt at wiping out his target, he goes on the run to avoid being the next victim of his employers. Before he can make it back home, the employers have put his girlfriend in a coma and guess what, it's serious! This truly is the greatest visual companion to The Smiths discography ever conceived. Two questions at this point and these will keep you hooked and weirded out for the rest of the movie. Firstly, do you really buy this fucking loser having a girlfriend? Secondly, if he's such a professional why did he botch that job so badly? These will keep you on your toes for the entire revenge mission travelling across the world as he goes after those that hired him. Our killer hitman has several passports meaning several identities, making this the exact kind of material Michael Fassbender excels at. He's got some German in him, some Irish, he's got London acting schools written all over him and this isn't his first rodeo in Hollywood. We're dealing with a man who thrives off cultural confusion. Dude belongs in a Wong Kar Wai movie. In Inglorious Basterds, he was the British film critic with German blood who gives away his troops on a simple cultural error. In X-Men, he's a persecuted Jew and mutant trying to work out why he is hated so much, standing in for the abuse of gays and other minorities. Taking over from Ian McKellen could never have been easy but he's done a fantastic job. We're talking about an actor who can be in a movie as weak and dull as X-Men Apocalypse and still come off strong with the only stand out scene (the one where he cries in the woods).

In shame, he's hiding under the clothes of an ordinary businessman with a typical boring life but in reality he's a fucking PTSD ridden sleazeball with a dirty hard drive. A hero to us all at Funeralopolis. In both Prometheus and Steve Jobs he plays robotic figures wondering what it is to be human. So yes, let's just say he's really good at playing characters who are unsure them of themselves and are cloaking aspects of their personality to avoid being targeted and exposed by the majority.

Pay attention around the mid-point when The Killer gets to the sunshine state. The very place we were in the last issue of Funeralopolis. This is the location where he takes on The Brute, some big motherfucker with a dog and it gives us what is already being talked about as one of the most innovative, brutal and brilliant fight scenes from the last few years. Nearly every piece of household furniture is used and even sofas get tossed at each other. It's an insane fight because The Killer is so out of his weight class with The Brute so keeps trying to fall back on his training but he's struggling to get it out against the sheer force of his opponent. In a sense, Fincher is teasing us with the technical. Raw and polished go toe to toe. Fincher shoots this in near complete darkness, allowing the sound to take over. Reznor and Ross's score mixes with sound design so that you can't tell which is which. It's been a while since I sat down and made a DJ set (I confess, I wasn't very good at them, my hands are too shaky for all the precise mixing) but this was the basic idea I always had with the use of the film samples, not using quotes necessarily but fight scenes as this collage of sound. Trying to use my lack of understanding of rhythm and time to my advantage to create overlapping layers and textures. Glad to say in the hands of a professional like Trent Reznor these aims have been fully realised. Everything after this set piece is mostly disappointing. I can't tell if there's one chapter too many or one chapter too few. His meeting with Tilda Swinton is far more revealing than the closing one. In this scene it answers the question for me of why he missed the shot. I believe it was a deliberate act and the drinking of the whiskey is the big give away. We're dealing with a perfectionist observer who's sick of playing that role. He wants to leave finger prints, he wants to botch jobs, he wants to participate. It's Fincher's Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion.

What does the final meeting add to the movie? Is such a downer of an ending worth it? Why couldn't he have just fought 10 brutes for the big finish? Alright, no-ones saying it didn't have to be anti-climactic but if you go that way you have to say more than an entertaining set piece at least. Otherwise it's pointless, you have to earn it! Climb out your own arse and stop thinking you're too good for some good old action. If you go this alternative route, you have to get it right. I'm not saying the chosen ending doesn't say anything either, from what I gather maybe it's to do with how worthless the revenge mission was and the kind of people who really run things in the world. However, it had very little impact on me to justify the decisions made. All I will say is this, where was The Killer, now one of the many and not the few, when we needed him during the 2017 and 2019 British General Elections? As disappointed as I am by the ending (and I am very disappointed) I couldn't hate this by any means. It's adequately weird and unique for the most part. Structurally the way it refuses to give itself a neater narrative that flows better and sticks to its chapters from the original graphic novel is far more innovative than any of the MCU offerings. Also, it's intriguing to see how accepted Fincher's work is by mainstream audiences. He has to be the most commercially successful perverted auteur currently working and it's impossible not to respect that and how he's achieved this. My theory behind how he's done that is Gone Girl. Turning it in to this perverse horror/thriller date movie for all to enjoy. A fantastic career decision and potential masterpiece in that genre of mine I call dinner table. He took on the ultimate trashy girly best seller paperback and made an incredible piece of pop art out of it. Won an entire new audience from the experience. Far surpassing those once promising but now forgettable directors who did Fifty Shades of Grey, The Hunger Games and The Philosopher's Stone. The Killer's rockiness aside, one single fact still remains, David Fincher simply cannot scare the hoes. Respect. Respect. Respect.

Director: David Fincher

Bonus Points:

Screenplay: Andrew Kevin Walker Cinematography: Erik Messerschmidt Music: Trent Reznor, Atticus Ross

-The opening chapter setting up the kill shot, the use of music as a POV shot and Fight Club style satirical narration

Production Company: Netflix, Plan B

Distribution: Netflix Country: USA Run Time: 118 mins Budget: Unknown

Plot Synopsis: Well I wonder what Le Samourai would be like if the main character was a fan of The Smiths. After a botched job, this charming man, whose name is never revealed has to travel back to the old house, where he finds his girlfriend in a coma. He goes on a revenge mission and so for everyone in his path it's death at one's elbow. Over the journey, it begins to sink in, what difference does it make? Sorry, that joke isn't funny anymore... I started something I couldn't finish.

-The staging and lighting of the fight scene with The Brute -Ross and Reznor's score that beautifully blurs with the sound design. A throwback to Seven when Coil remixed Closer for the title credits

-Creating this loser character who may just stick in the public consciousness for years to come -Still torn on whether this is a bonus point or a minus but the ironic use of The Smiths

Overall Score: 3.5/5

The Irresistible Charm of The Driver At first sight Drive seems nothing other than a solidly crafted violent b movie. One which you could be fooled in to thinking its overrated. You may ask as Carey Mulligans character does, "Where's the deluxe version?". Yet under its glossy neon surface like fellow recent classic Spring Breakers is something much deeper and reflective. There's a reason this film has become such a beloved classic for an entire generation of movie lovers and because of that there's no denying it's importance. I'm sure after Taxi Driver, many people saw themselves in Travis Bickle. This loner type who was disgusted by what he saw in the sleazy streets. His profession being the perfect view point in to this terrifying world. Having that feeling of wanting to do something but not knowing how or even what. There's plenty of that in the Ryan Goslings The Driver character. Being on the brink of violence that may not have any impact so ever but nonetheless driven and dedicated to see some change like Ethan Hawke in First Reformed, Schrader's modernised Taxi Driver to fit environmentalist concerns. Here we have a nameless dude like the infamous Clint Eastwood cowboy who could represent anyone. He chews on a toothpick like Stallone in Cobra, preferring not to speak and having these cold icy eyes that reveal very little. Mostly silent and losing the ability to communicate in a world where we're constantly exposed to information that we're unable to process. Instantaneous information hitting us like a freight train best demonstrated in Nightcrawler. Our body comes an expressionless avatar and real lives lived online. In effect, it's a subtle modern body horror in which we fight ourselves to reveal just a drop of emotion physically rather than just internally. A repackaged hero of film history who's entire demeanour has come to resemble that 21st century detachment and isolation felt by so many in the modern world.

Honestly it feels like something from a Radiohead album. Even a Philip K Dick short story or William Gibson. Love and loneliness in the paranoid age of the computer. I always enjoy reading critics who miss the point of a movie cause often what they write is more revealing and useful. Bill Bradley, who believed the film to be highly overrated, wrote that, "Refn spends all the 100 minutes trying to convince you that he has a cool iPod playlist". Weirdly, it's an excellent point and certainly to a large extent the key to its success. A withdrawn character seeping into his little iPod playlist and finding it his only way to express his personality. I mean it's saddo shit but it's bang on the money. This is a dude who just drives. Refn using that to go in to full on existential territory. Gosling who is often wrongfully described as 'wooden' is the perfect way to embody the films messages. He would later work on this persona in Blade Runner 2049 and First Man. The latter being a film I don't think gets the respect it should. To me that was a movie about the search for constant meaning. All your best friends dying just to get on the moon. The Government spending the tax payers money on something potentially pointless. Then you get that excellent scene in which Gosling has to leave behind a Memento on the moon. No one could have portrayed that detached attitude as Gosling drops his "personal items" that probably don't mean anything but he does it because he's been told to. Triumph and meaning is whatever you give it. Sounds absurdist. A stunning existentialist film if you ask me. Existentialism is something Winding Refn tried to do with others like Fear X and Only God Forgives but he never got close to the satisfying narrative of Drive. Perhaps, that's the key to its brilliance. It's a grounded genre movie and yet leaps off in to so many other areas. For me, that's what makes it an improvement on Melville's Le Samourai. There's definitely something of a roaming Ronin in The Driver with Bryan Cranston serving as a potential master. The action growing increasingly erratic without his involvement. They had a good working relationship and the second The Driver goes solo this happens!

Talking about that actual "playlist". I do genuinely like the choices. Refn could have lazily gone for Kraftwerk, Tangerine Dream and all that belting synthpop from the '80s but instead goes for much newer stuff like Chromatic, Kavinsky and Desire. Results in giving it this like retro zeitgeist feel. An empty generation believing there's no culture for them and going for some nostalgic recreation of the '80s. You can see the history of it with Michael Mann meets John Hughes but once again freshened up. Carey Mulligan is wonderful as the romantic interest who seems to play off these central characters who are kind of selfinterested and loners. Shame being another amazing example. That too covers a lot of the same ground as Drive. In that one the character just gets completely lost in online porn and casual hook ups whilst navigating the cold world of the 21st century. The result of being over exposed to stimulation in the digital era. Once again a story about love in the age of the computer. Considering all the big hitters of the last few years like Her and Blade Runner 2049 this kind of story continues to find an audience. The characters occupying these worlds could best be described as "byproducts" of their time, a word so inhuman, it's simply Ballardian. Also, Zane Lowe's disgusting experiment curating his own tracks only serves to add to the films meaning. Whilst I will never watch that version it does illustrate we live in scary world where one can recreate their own playlist for it to fit their needs. Fitter happier, more productive. A patient, better driver. A safer car (baby smiling in the back seat). That really freaks me out for some reason that I'm not sure I fully understand or even want to. In a sense destroying the artists original work to create a more personal experience. Kind of foresees the interactive films that would later arrive such as Bandersnatch. A means to a destruction of an artist's work in a way never seen before. What a nightmarish world we live in.

Some think the driver's jacket with the scorpion jacket is meant to be a reference to Kiss but Refn's said it's something to do with fairy tales, the specific one being mentioned in the film. Don't know enough about those to comment but I do like the way he's viewing it as this dreamy fairytale romance set in LA. Where romantic scenes come alive to music video like montages. In one he reflects on a romance building whilst fixing machine parts instead of being at the party next door. If that doesn't sum up the Ballardian vibe to the film I don't know what else does. The explicit romance with the backdrop of LA should almost come with a parental advisory sticker gives it like a synthy John Carpenter atmospheric cartoonish vibe. Maybe the jacket even comes from Scorpio Rising. Either way like the suits in Reservoir Dogs, it's a uniform and the scorpion some badge of honour like a Samurai symbol. Emphasises his proper disciplined nature along with that 5 minute rule of his. The brutality of the hammer and the noir recalls the violence of Taxi Driver and maybe even some of First Blood. There's an inner trauma dictating the characters violent actions but in this case isn't Vietnam. It's the over exposure of all terrible news at all times of day. The result of the internet. And I'm sure that will make the boomers laugh. But that's kind of the world that's developed. One in which you have so much access you have to come Jack Nicholson in The Shining. A caretaker of the halls of history. Trying to compartmentalise the unfiltered horrors of the past and present. Lost in some grand timeless mess trying to find meaning. That's sort of what the Internet is I think, a timeless mess, a stream of everything and nothing that the mind seeks to make sense of. A prison in which we're handed our own keys. We can leave whenever we like but the desired half in half out is near impossible. It grows more difficult to decide which information we want and what is forced upon us by algorithms dictating our content. That sick and disgusting word.

It is possibly this desire to select information and not let the big companies influence culture that leads us to Zane Lowe's stupid choice to select art so much you can destroy its very nature in some disastrous attempt to regain a sense of control. Tonally the film does switch beautifully between fleeting romance and horrifying nasty violence. The lift scene being the best example. His role as a stunt man becomes only more appropriate here. Essentially, this is an observer distant from reality but occasionally can step in risking his life to be the absolute hero.

The car chases technical virtuosity can't be ignored. Harkens back to classics like The Driver, Bullit and The French Connection. Such an incredible suspense in that opening set piece. That's how you open a movie! As I've said multiple times Drive was all about taking so much iconic 70s and 80s cinema and shuffling it in to a new formation to appeal to the detached and isolated youth of today. It's interesting when you compare it to the work of the Safdie brothers. Those two chiefs are very stylistically similar but their characters are very different. Safdie brothers characters are gamblers living for today, fully aware of the consequences of their actions more than ever before and not caring about tomorrow. Refn characters are ignorant to pretty much everything and willing to risk it all for the answers. No surprise whatsoever that both Safdies and Refn have made highly successful films in the last few years. Still amuses me though that Refn was so rattled by just how hard Drive hit with audiences that rather than go on to have a successful mainstream career in Hollywood he decided to do a complete inverse of this movie (with Gosling playing a weak mommas boy and even going as far as to wear a different colour shirt) destroying his own creation and we got the absolutely baffling and brilliant Only God Forgives. He's moved to television now and continues to deconstruct himself, favouring long awkward silences over commercial action. I'm sure our kids will laugh at the driver the way we laugh at Travis Bickle. Maybe before then even we will see him as the ultimate parody of ourselves. Regardless, just like the so called 'incel' Travis Bickle for previous generations, The Driver will come a relic of our time whether we like it or not.

Director: Nicholas Winding Refn

Bonus Points:

Screenplay: Hossein Amini, James Sallis Cinematography: Newton Thomas Sigel

-The opening heist done as a throwback to 70s car chase pictures but with a modern spin on the well-chosen Chromatics song to add suspsense

Music: Cliff Martinez

Production Company: Bold Films, OddLott Entertainment Distribution: FilmDistrict

Country: USA Run Time: 100 mins Budget: 15 mil Plot Synopsis: He drives.

-Mann meets Hughes

-The montage where they drive -All the synthwave -Hammer time

-The bald freak mask -Albert Brookes in a non-comedic role

-The Driver's long lasting legacy. Generational -Ryan Gosling

Overall Score 4.5/5

The Exorcist Movie with NO Exorcist Between the years 2018 and 2022, public enemy number one and all round generally despised menace, David Gordon Green dropped his much loathed Halloween trilogy. Naturally, I championed each and every one of them over in Vol. 1 Issue #5. Not much has changed except Halloween Ends has emerged as unexpectedly my favourite of the notorious three. Most would say the first was superior and I begrudgingly admit it was a sturdy slasher if lacking in weight. This is true but I have been swayed by the near unrepeatable Halloween Ends for a its unique weirdness. For this was the moment David Gordon Green finally combined his Terrence Malick origins and his later penchant for horror. He really made that one his own. Sure, there are some bizarre decisions with characters stepping outside themselves at times and straying from any realism we know but it has vision. Laurie becoming some sort of agony aunt, hammering away at her laptop is a particularly odd contribution. More Log Lady than the young teenager who once fought off a serial killer. Let's not forget though that Twin Peaks wasn't without this kind of psychotic surreal melodrama. How could anyone forget when Leland Palmer tragically dives on his daughter's grave as it is being lowered in to the ground, leading his wife to question whether he could make this awful day any worse? Gordon Green turns Haddonfield in to a similar kind of place where the owls are not what they seem. Who can deny the sonic and visual beauty of Corey Cunningham and Allyson Nelson riding off in to the night on bikes to Boy Harsher and having their little romantic rendezvous on rooftops discussing leaving this rotten town for good to avoid being caught in a never ending cycle of generational grief. Halloween Ends has all these beautiful detours and then slips back in to violent slasher mode at the click of a finger. Marching in to the radio station, muderering receptionist Darcy the Mail Girl and slamming the DJs head in to a vinyl copy of The Cramps I Was a Teenage Werewolf so that the listening experience is ruined by a wayward tongue spinning on the record. The bloody wreckage at the scrapyard in which several bullies do finally be getting it.

Then ending it all with the series unofficial theme song Don't Fear the Reaper as Laurie and Deputy Hawkins sit on the porch. The title credit is thrown in and you contemplate the serious fact there is absolutely no part of you that thinks there is any resolve in this story and that Michael Myers could ever truly die. Before watching The Exorcist: Believer, I returned to Halloween Ends, ignoring the overwhelmingly bad reviews, hoping for the same kind of curveballs. They can talk shit about his Halloween films all they want but for the most part they intrigued me. Gordon Green is not quite the Hollywood hack he's made out to be. Both him and writing buddy Danny McBride operate on a strange plane. Not quite fully intellectuals and not quite dumb morons. Typical failing to achieve true potential stoners would be how I'd describe them. Smart enough to have ideas, dumb enough not carry them through. Half-baked outrageous additions that are not clever enough to stimulate the critics and not safe enough to excite the genre die-hards. I never found any of them boring, I'll tell you that. For Halloween Kills, he literally came up with having packs of hunters tracking down the apex predator. A genre role reversal. A lunatics take on Fritz Lang's M where mob justice is critiqued. Or at least attempted. As though incorporating incidents such as the United States Capitol Attack and other right wing resurgences due to Trump. This is not me praising the results, this is me baffled by their inclusion. Amusing, it was. What leg has David Gordon Green got left stand on when he loses me, his greatest defender with his latest film, The Exorcist: Believer? The first in a planned trilogy. Word is those no good idiots at Blumhouse, (who effectively did to horror what Jaws and Star Wars for mainstream studio filmmaking in infantising audiences, but didn't even have a Jaws or Star Wars to make up for it, instead giving us Insidious), paid 400 million for the rights to make three films. It was almost always going to be a critical disaster but whether this turns out to be a poor business choice remains to be seen.

Sadly, the first has already made over 100 million and so it's likely they could get their money back yet. A real shame because the only thing that could make me forgive this shit show would be if it sent those Blumhouse bastards packing due to bankruptcy. That would be some divine justice from the lord alright. A sadist studio forever punishing us with garbage. High budgets, low quality is their MO. They represent the very bottom of the class of horror. Even their greatest hits (Get Out, The Invisible Man, the Halloween trilogy, the Creep series, The Lords of Salem and The Bay) don't make up for their endless misses (too many to name). They are without a doubt one of the worst things to happen to horror since the 2010s began. All the modern failings can be traced back to them with those high budgets making the films appear bland and loses their raw realistic aesthetics. Tonally playing it safe, watering and dumbing down for 15 year olds. Appealing to the Tik Tok generation by relying on cheap jump scares over sustained atmosphere and contributing to the death of suspense. Replacing true creativity and envelope pushing for recycled and regurgitated themes such as individual grief and trauma. The devil may not wipe out Jason Blumhouse but hopefully one day Michael Myers will slaughter him in broad daylight for all to see. Let's start with the obvious, an instant game finisher if ever there was one. Over a now 6 film series, this is a complete new one to me. Here I must report that The Exorcist: Believer has no exorcist. You'd think that surely this must be a given, right? Apparently not. About the closest they get is a priest who on the big day bottles it to sit in his car and wait it out, causing a concerned neighbour who once had aspirations of becoming a nun to carry out the near impossible task. Between the cast, they each try to step in and perform the exorcism themselves in the same way that a character in a musical spontaneously breaks in to song. Usually, I can tell exactly where a film is up to narratively speaking and I was convinced the film still had about 20 minutes to go because they were setting up a hopeless all is lost feeling that would be dramatically saved right at the end.

Things did not pan out this way, this is what it descends in to, a bunch of clueless fuckheads in a room all screaming over each other trying to make an exorcism happen. Breaking Bad intervention style pass the magic pillow, it's my turn to fucking exorcise now. Go home, it's not happening. As they said in The X-Files, "I want to believe" but you're really asking for a lot here by not having an exorcist in an exorcist movie. If Halloween Kills was genre reversal, this is genre removal. It's too much and it doesn't work to make it worth it. Leaves one to wonder, was Gordon Green attempting one of his genre deviations? A possession movie without its usual characters and set pieces? One in which a community gathers together to stop the threat rather than resorting to the post-Nietzsche, post-paedophilia exposure out of favour church? My suspicions in this being the case lie in Chris MacNeal confessing to exploring all religions and trying to make sense of them. Potentially, this could be the aim but it's an utter shambles to watch and simply not the ludicrous entertainment of Halloween. Oh yes, it is ludicrous but for some reason it is not entertaining, lacking anything on the sonic and visual front. Credibility is lost with the abysmal line where she complaints about not being able to witness her child's exorcism due to the "patriarchy". One of the most embarrassing attempts to keep up with the feminist movements of today. At best you can call it an accidental parody of the genre, a textbook example learning curve of what not to do. I'd back its lack of faith in the church and religion if the film wasn't so irredeemably boring, flat and uninspired. Accusations of being antiabortion are actually undeserved. A character being punished by the devil for choosing his wife over an unborn child (the only thing cheaper than the look of this opening set piece is fact it uses the Haitian disaster for no reason) does not equal the film punishing such a decision. It is merely the devil exploiting the emotional weights arising from the consequences of moral actions. To consider it antiabortion is to give the film too much credit.

I am not, nor have I ever been, antiabortion. However, if this film did adopt this stance, I'd actually on some level respect it for having one little whiff of an idea in its dumb little head even if it was totally disagreeable. How clumsy can Gordon Green get anyway? He's gone from stupidly but entertainingly criticising the recent resurgence of right wing activities in Halloween Kills to now accidentally arguably (but boringly) endorsing right wing conservative beliefs. A real low point in his career. Only Ridley Scott can switch from left right so rapidly and that's usually because of whether he's doing science fiction or his historical epics and he kind of conforms to the genre he's making. This has no rhyme or reason. Where are the characters in this film? Where is the hangout fun of Halloween Ends? We never learn about any of the characters on display. There's only one or two interesting scenes where it comments on the awkwardness of how childhood friends parents don't always get on. Whilst the kids know everything about each other, the parents barely know of the others existence. Where's the same notable song choices? Halloween Ends had the whole radio set up. There's not one interesting use of music in the entire film. Where the kids go missing to is not presented with any flair whatsoever and the dual exorcism finale is a completely wasted opportunity. Only time the film comes alive and suggests something decent is with its set up is when the two kids are examined after their disappearance. Although, in separate rooms, the questioning montage unites the two girls and is genuinely constructed with respectable rhythm. Unfortunately, for the rest of the movie David Gordon Green is caught napping. Has his enthusiasm gone? Instead of Halloweens crushing violence, The Exorcist: Believer has nothing to offer even as a genre piece. It's not the safe start he arrived with last time out that's for sure. I simply can't get behind a film that abandons the originals intellectual investigation of faith. Resorting to near child actor abuse to get that message across and commit to that vision.

Scenes of father Karras moaning in boozers about losing his faith are just as scary as the later set pieces soundtracked to Penderecki. What do we get now? Demons smiling and predictable jump scares seen a mile off. All the worst aspects of what this genre has become. Where's the sustaining sense of dread gone? Atmosphere has been eradicated in favour of hyperactive cattle prodding the audience. I find it utterly patronising that these filmmakers deem us unable to intellectually respond to the movie. Gone is a script that can really push your buttons by testing the limits of our beliefs and all we're allowed now is loud obnoxious banging and demons that smile at us. For the millionth time, either bring back the Japanese method of hiding the demons faces in pure haze so that you fill in the facial features to fit your own horrors or count me out.

The Exorcist: Believer has an ending so contrived it has to be seen to be believed. Ellen Burstyn is bowled out quickly at the first sign of trouble. It's far from the badass return of Laurie Strode. Rather unfairly and unheroically, she has her eyes gouged out and sits the rest of the movie out from a hospital bed. Throughout, her daughter has not forgiven her for writing a book profiting from her torturous childhood. Yet, for no reason at all the final scene is Regan showing up to forgive her mother. For precisely what reason? This can only be a dying fantasy right? The film gives us no explanation as to why there is this late moment of forgiveness. Did they forget to write it in or do we have exorcised scenes? Other critics have addressed that like with Gordon Green's Halloween remake there are these mirroring shots to the original. Either I have not seen the original enough (despite seeing probably near 10 times) or there aren't that many worth talking about. In Halloween, this was used very smartly and economically, continuing the themes of predator, prey and the battle of the sexes. In this new Exorcist, I'm yet to see their purpose and how they tie everything together. Therefore, it can only be a nostalgic exercise.

Emphasised too by the awful use of legacy characters (as we are now to call them). It leaves you wishing they abandoned as much as possible of the original and did their own thing with it. Sorry, Gordon Green I just can't back you this time. Directorial choices can be subjective but I don't see any vision at play here and that's what annoys me the most. Hence, why I can't defend it on any level. It's clumsier than his ridiculously clumsy Halloween films and not nearly as entertaining. Recent David Gordon Green comments did cheer me up a little when he expressed that working for HBO is light fun as a break and his much loathed horror movies is serious genre work. Making clear his allegiances. Finally, a director with his priorities sorted out! Hard to hate on that considering most directors who made terrible horror sequels in the '80s would be saying shit like they are not horror directors, they hated their own movies too and they saw each disaster as originally a potential breakthrough in becoming a respectable commercial director. Always one step from away from greatness, moaning about never having the right budget or project. On the other hand, Gordon Green is under the impression he's already made it and these are the ends not the means to an end. What a King. A deluded man but nonetheless likable king. My advice? Give up on these two Exorcist sequels and get back to the CCU (Cunningham Cinematic Universe). I'm still expecting the Vega brothers but it's Corey and Arnie Cunningham getting up to various mischief. Fuck The Exorcist, expand the CCU. Ok so maybe that might not happen but don't be surprised if Gordon Green steps away from the director's chair on these last two and just takes a "producer's credit". Mark Kermode, who considers the original Exorcist to be man's greatest achievement, is famous for policing these Exorcist sequels. He is the authority of the antichrist. The regulator of revenants. The law in hell. Confession time, until now, I have never disliked an Exorcist movie. I'm team Kael and Scorsese on The Heretic.

Boorman brought the trippy delights of Point Blank, Excalibur and Zardoz. Whilst, I can't say I understand it in a way that can be expressed verbally, leaning more so in to strict phenomenology, there's something wonderful about all the flying locusts invading the screen to Ennio Morricone's tribal score that's just cinematically beautiful in a wordless sense. Part 3 is directed by original writer Blatty so that welcomes back the themes we started with and is generally accepted as great. Dominion unites notorious Calvinist Paul Schrader with the material. A match made in heaven that plays out exactly how you'd expect. Studios being the bright and intelligent people they are, decided it wasn't a match made in heaven and belled the director of Die Hard 2 and Deep Blue Sea, Renny Harlin, to save the day with a new script but the same cast. This one could be bad, I've not seen it. The level of disrespect to Schrader, one of the finest director's America ever produced, by replacing him with Renny Harlin is beyond my comprehension and because of that maybe I’ll never watch it. No disrespect to unpretentious craftsman Renny Harlin intended. So yes, up to Believer, I had considered all of these despised sequels to be not just trashy fun but all genuinely great in their own right. Believer's third act amateur hour pass the parcel exorcism was so utterly appalling that I got up and left part way through. Not out of spite or hatred but because I just couldn't see my boy DGG like that. He'd sank lower than The Titanic and I was so ashamed I threw in the towel for him and went to the toilet to cool down. After I'd aggressively washed my hands and angrily thrown a few paper towels in the bin, I stood out in the foyer thinking of my next move. Did I cut my losses early and grab another beer or did I go back and see just how bad this poor excuse for an exorcism was getting on? I made the wrong decision to go back in and watch the final few horrendous minutes. But God bless the patriarchy for allowing me the choice of whether or not to watch the exorcism! Ricardo Carvalho didn't make it to the end. Someone began an emotional closing speech and he just said, "I don't need to hear this" and walked out.

We drowned our sorrows in Motel, a lousy (but not the lousiest) club in Liverpool. Since, I'd graciously given our friend, Mr Carvalho, a few cans back at mine and a couple of drinks at the cinema, I asked him to do us a favour and get this round in. He obliged and for a few brief moments we looked like we might actually dig ourselves out from the absolute downer that Believer had left us on. Motel's DJ was on some disco and pop house kick and nobody dared intervene. Whitney was telling us about how there's this boy she knows who takes her to the clouds above and she dreams of him night after night. But how will she know if this boy really loves her? Get the fucking daisy chain out and blow, baby! By the time Dua Lipa was blasting, I had these dudes I'd never met, and would never meet again, swinging round my neck, singing along to the Albanian ambassador like it was the 2018 Champions League final in Kiev once again. Ricardo and I were reminiscing about our best memory in the place, possibly before it was called Motel (I forget its name) for some alternative synthpop, postpunk and goth night back in about 2017. A significant occasion because something happened there that may never have happened since. All our boys had dates. Even our boys who had girlfriends out of town had dates. A rare and magical occasion that may never be repeated. An experience similar to watching Magic Mike 2, when toxic masculinity is defeated and all your boys are achieving their dreams. What an evening it was, everyone dancing to Suffragette City. Weaving in and out of each other, raising chairs in the air like it was Liverpool's response to Westside Story. Maybe that last part about the chairs wasn't true, I may have got carried away there. But let's just say the boys were having a good time and no-one went home hungry.

Back in the present, the next stop on mine and Ricardo's night to cheer us up after Believer was The Jack. Soon as we walk in, they're blasting out some filthy garage rock number with The Electric Prunes I had Too Much to Dream Last Night. An instant K.O. and game over if ever there was one. Ricardo's head goes so badly he just decides to sit down in the nearest spot he can find, right in between two people who just happen to be sat down on a quiet date.

Last thing they wanted was to be bothered. They give him the evils persistently expecting him to move with just the right amount of eye contact. How wrong they are. Our newly single Ricardo was oblivious to just about everything around him. He had forgotten how the concept of "rounds" worked and the ratio was getting ridiculous. But still we marched on. By the next location, the dreaded Teddy's, I politely asked him if he wouldn't mind getting the next round in cause his total obliviousness to his surroundings was taking a real hit on the bank of Kelly. He agreed to get the next one in and we marched over to the bar. We ordered up and when it came to paying something funny happened. Ricardo had temporarily lost the functioning of his right arm. The card reader was out but there was no card. "What's happened to your hand, lad?", I asked. "What?", answered Ricardo. "There's no card in it. There's meant to be a card in it", I cleared up. "Ah yeah", says Ricardo letting off a smile as his eyes dart in a thousand different directions. I look over at the bar lady and back at Ricardo, then I nod in the direction of the card reader. It takes about 5 less than subtle nods and still he's none the wiser as to the situation. The bar lady clocks on that he's clueless and takes the drinks away. Maybe it was humiliation. Maybe it was anger. But I stormed off to get some fresh air and I didn't much care that Ricardo wasn't behind me when I turned round after that shocking performance.

My memory here is hazy but the next thing I remember is waking up in my own bed, The Jesus Lizard's Then Comes Dudley is giving my ears a serious pounding through my headphones, Bela Lugosi is on the TV and I am holding the end of a half-eaten wrap. The time is 9am. I check my phone and am shocked to find Ricardo called me every minute on the dot between 2am and 5am. What the fuck had happened here? Why hadn't he gone home? Surely after about 10 knocks and 3 calls, you'd give up? From the looks of it he'd been knocking on my door and trying to raise me on my phone non-stop. My only hope was the neighbours didn't hear any of this. I hadn't had a noise complaint since the Champions League final 2019, when me and this muppet were living together. The bastard better not have got me another.

Suddenly, I get this strange freakish image in my head: what if he's still standing out the door right now at 9am? This thought won't pass and the image won't clear so I get up to check just to be sure. Upon standing, I nearly collapse in a heap on the floor. My legs had gone to jelly and severe winds were blowing me from side to side like I was on an ill-fated boat taking choppy seas. What the fuck was that? My initial conclusion was that in the hours where my memory is missing, my naughty nose must have wondered on to the end of some ketamine, that horrible horse tranquiliser that should be removed from all existence. Nothing else does that to the legs. Absolute fucking clown legs.

Using the walls as my support, I slowly make my way to the door for a quick glance through the peep hole and I am greeted by a site no-one wants to see at that hour. A puffed up red faced tomato that needed watering was staring right back at me. It was him alright. My head was so gone from the disgusting horrors standing inches away from me that I didn't know whether to open the door and let it in or sneak off back to bed pretending I never saw it. I debate which would be best. There is a knock at the door, too late. I slowly unlock and open the door. Not knowing quite what to say, I just throw out, "what the fuck?" and Ricardo just nods and adds, "yeah". Sometimes a single face can say it all and the word in this case was, "rough". Without even being invited in, he brushes past and sits down on my TV watching chair. I edge back to my bed and sit down. "What happened last night and did it involve that nasty drug known as ketamine?", I finally ask breaking the silence. "You might have. I don't know. I last saw you in Teddy's. Didn't realise you'd gone then I came to find you. Must have called you about a hundred times. I was knocking for hours", recalls Ricardo. "Jesus, what was I doing for all this?", I probe further. "Away with the fairies", concludes Ricardo.

He went on to explain that after all this rapping at my chamber door, he fell asleep on the floor in the hallway. Eventually, my neighbours found him (who had never met him before), felt sorry for him and let him sleep on their sofa. Shit, I barely even knew them. What a clown. Any Wirral head worth their salt knows that on a night out in town if you can't crash at someone's place you either fork out for a taxi or bite the bullet and get the first train/bus back home. Why was he still here bothering me forevermore? I wasn't really up for socialising with him at 9am on Saturday morning. Friend or foe. The only thing more fucked than my memory was my damn legs. So, I made it absolutely clear I wasn't up for casual conversation and got back under my bed sheets. Being a man who excels in outstaying his welcome, he didn't get the message. "I'll mong out in this chair for like 20 minutes and then head off", he shared. "Fine", I said and rolled over on to the other pillow. About 4 hours later, he got up and said he was leaving. Unable or unwilling to move, I stuck my thumb up in the air like Joaquin Phoenix's Julius Caesar in Gladiator and off he went. Finally, I could crawl like a crab to the toilet because I also had a wicked case of shits that needed seeing to immediately. On my return from the toilet, dripping sweat, that's when I began to notice things. Strange symptoms faster than I could google them. Endless neon colours flashing in my eyes. Flower petals falling across my cheeks like confetti. Bernard Herrmann terrorising my ears. When it all got too intense I pressed my hands into my ears and shut my eyes hoping to never be tortured by the curse of sound and vision ever again.

When I removed my hands from my ears and opened my eyes, I realised I was taking a stroll through St James's cemetery. I walked through the little tunnel and on either side of me stood endless gravestones as though each was watching me and leading me forwards. To what exactly, I got my answer quicker than I anticipated. To my own gravestone about 10 yards ahead. Visitation was my intention but this spelled permanence. My name had already been carved and someone had even dug space for the coffin. All that was needed was me. They were going to have to try harder if they wanted me. I looked around for my murderer and called out, "this isn't mine, it can't be!". There was a shady figure running in to the church and on impulse, I chased after the suspicious entity of the night. Up and up them steps I went to find the rogue devil. What I would say to him when I caught him I wasn't sure but I had to catch him. Chase first, questions later. These old steps were crumbling beneath my feet. Every time I dropped my foot, debris dribbled down to the bottom. How much more could these steps take? I hold my hands out to stop from falling and then it all goes wrong. It was happening. I was going full James Stewart. Here comes the dolly shot. It wasn't ketamine, it was vertigo. I'd googled it. You can actually get vertigo from alcohol and rotating fans (I'd kept it on near permanently for days to handle this years last blast of sunshine before winter). In my head, I'd always thought Vertigo was paranoia, some loser who couldn't handle a good view. You know what all this came back to? That fucking Weedeater gig. This ear of mine must seriously be damaged. Those guys owe me big time. I stood at the edge of the stairs looking over into the abyss, waiting for the infamous dolly shot to come but it didn't go down like that. It was more like Roberto Carlos's impossible free kick against France. A ceaseless backspin across the galaxy. "Forever and ever and ever", as The Shining girls would say.

To get cinematically picky, if anything it was more like the upside down POV shot of the stairs in Rebel without a Cause. That one dizzying movement when the mother comes up the stairs but on a continuous loop. Not zooms but circles. Endless circles. Not in and out but round and round. Mind or body, I began to fall from the top stair. Down and down, slower than the bus in Inception until eventually I hit the ground... I reach out and my hand touches a hard wooden floor. With my other hand I try to get a feel for my surroundings, hitting a sofa in front of me in the dark, pulling back and nearly knocking over a vintage green 1909 Goldman Bankers lamp. This illuminates a large shadow of a crouched shape on the wall that did not belong to myself. I followed it with my eyes and came across a perched red demon sitting on the windowsill facing outside. His eyes oozed bad vibes. As though locked in contemplating sin. Leaving was my ultimate desire but all I could do was freeze to the spot. I couldn't take my eyes off of the carved symbol on his back. A circle then multiple labyrinth passages leading through to an inner circle in the middle. A man stood at the top just inside the big circle. Before I could figure out what the symbol was supposed to be, the demon turned to face me and I sprinted out the room and on to the empty streets.

This was the most horrifying sight I'd ever encountered. One look had driven me to near madness. Where does such a beast come from? I ran until I passed out. Over hours of drifting in and out of conscious, I was nursed back to health by an accommodating woman named Susie. The smell of her perfume I began to associate this with the water and rice she served me. Like waves she drifted in and out nursing this fool back to full health. As Brad Pitt said in Moneyball, "It's a process". She kept me company with tales of old and handed down jokes. Occasionally, a confident and moodier looking man would enter and ask as to my condition. Never speaking directly to me but to the woman who I would guess was his sister. After a few days, I was fit and well. As a thank you, I offered to work on the farm and my invitation was accepted.

It was strange to see they still had religion out here in the sticks. Time had not washed it away and they clung on to their old traditions. There was over 50 of us workers and each morning started off with a sermon from Susie's brother Reverend Mike that was normally torn from the pages of John. "Light has come in to the world but people loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil. Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come in to the light for fear their deeds will be exposed. But whoever lives by the truth comes in to the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what they have done has been in the sight of God. Jesus is the light of the world. Whoever follows him will never walk in darkness but the light of life", rambled Reverend Mike. Next I guess was some sort of pep talk I think, although I didn't get what he was blabbering about myself. "I tell you open your eyes and look at the fields, they are ripe for harvest! Even now he who reaps draws a wage and harvests a crop for eternal life, so that the Sower and the reaper may be glad together. Thus the saying, 'one sows and another reaps is true'. I sent you to reap what you have not worked for. Others have done the hard work, and you have reaped the benefits of their labour", Reverend Mike went on. Out in the fields, everybody sang together as they worked. "I see the sign, I see the sign I see the sign. I see the sign (Hail O the time draws nigh). Sign of the judgement. The sign of the judgement. Sign of the judgement. The sign of the judgement. (Hail O the time draws nigh). The sign in the fig tree. Sign in the fig tree. The sign in the fig tree", was a chant that could be heard for miles. Long haired Joshua would lead it and everyone would shout it back to him. I didn't have a clue what it meant but I enjoyed the community spirit and powered on with my work.

One evening, Reverend Mike called me to his quarters. "How you finding your stay?", he asked. I told him all was well and I would probably be out their hair in a few days. He asked me what I thought of Susie and I told him she was an honourable lady. I noticed him going through the book of John and underlining parts. "What's with that? You guys read any other of the apostles or did you only get John out here?", I enquired.

"Only John", answered Reverend Mike with a smile. "Isn't he hugely disregarded today?", I more than a little mocked. "By the church perhaps. Who we thoroughly oppose. We accept his teachings but the church as an institution controlled by the state? No. John represents something outside that", states Reverend Mike. "I can dig it, John's sure got vision. His book may even be my favourite", I let out. "How come?", asks Reverend Mike genuinely curious. "I find him... amusing. You see. I don't come to the bible for cinema verite. I don't expect to read the word of truth. I come to get my head blown off. Now, John with his old school fire and brimstone, the apocalypse is coming bullshit. That entertains me. I can work with it", I confess. "An absurdist?", proposes Reverend Mike. "How'd you guess?", I joke. "Is there any way you could entertain John? At least until you accept him in to your heart?", Reverend Mike wonders aloud. "As I said out of them all, he'd be the easiest", I admit. "You give him a chance and we'll give you a chance here", propositions the reverend. I leave him with, "John, he was Jesus's favourite disciple, right?", and walk out the door. As I rejoin the others, long haired Joshua is leading them and they are all blurting out the words to the old blues song John the Revelator, I get back to work and begin to wonder about my meeting with Reverend Mike, am I playing him or is he playing me? A fellow worker on the farm tells me to get a few pitchers of water for the thirsty boys. He spends a few minutes educating me as to the location of the nearby well. Still unsure of my way round the farm I take a stroll in the wrong direction and definitely come across something I'm not supposed to see. Crop circles with twisted patterns. Children's toys left behind as offerings, and in the middle of it all, that symbol. The circle with the maze inside leading to the inner circle. The one from the demon's back. Could it be that the reverend was playing me after all? Was I being Wicker Man'd?

I decide to turn, head back and pretend I never saw this. Not a chance. Before I can escape the crop circles, long haired Joshua notices me and screams, "what are you doing here! You're not supposed to be here". I ignore him and run through the crop fields until I am knocked down by a blow to the head. In a daze, I wake up back in my cabin. Reverend Mike can be heard arguing with Susie, repeating, "give glory to God by telling the truth. We know this man is a sinner!". Susie held back her brother from entering the room. Reverend Mike left with the promise that he would be back later.

The original welcoming attitude had shifted and I wanted a way out. Fear had taken over. There was no trust for thy neighbour any more. I kept asking Susie about the crop circles, the offerings and the symbol. "That's not for you. That's just to keep him away", she reveals. "Keep who away", I demand to know. She keeps uttering the word, "Glasdou". I ask her, "what is Glasdou?" and the response sends a shiver down my spine. "Glasdou. The man in the maze", she says. My mind drifts back to the demons symbol with the man who stands at the entrance to the maze. "What's in the maze?", I push on, unsure whether I want to know more. "When one reaches the centre, they say you have one last final opportunity to look back at it all before the Sun God greets us and passes us in to the next world", says Susie. "Death?", I question. Susie does not answer this. Night falls over the farm. A cold wind rushes to my cabin door, slamming it wide open and letting in a sinister presence. I hear the hooves on his feet tapping as he edges towards the bed. Glasdou. We meet again. He strikes out lashing at the spot where I was supposed to be laying but I am not there. Instead, I was hiding behind a bookshelf, which having now got the drop on him I knock into his direction, sending him crashing under a bunch of hardbacks and bolt out the open door.

Through the crop fields we run. I breathe heavily, Glasdou doesn't even break a sweat. When I reach the road, there is a white 1970 Plymouth Road Runner Superbird parked up without an owner in sight. It's mine now. I take off my jacket, wrap it round my fist and punch through the window. My shaking hands take over operating on muscle memory and in seconds the car is hot wired. I drive off at high speed leaving Glasdou in the middle of the road.

Having left my foe for dead, I let out a little chuckle and tap the roof of the Road Runner in celebration. All by itself the car radio switches on and Ty Segall's rendition of Low Rider trickles out the speakers. I could sense the presence of evil. Instinctively, I check the rear view mirror and sure enough Glasdou is on my tail driving a black 1969 AMC AMX/3. Completely menacing in its appearance. My eyes study its perfect curvature. Considering this vehicle never went in to mass production and to the best of my knowledge was never made in black, how did he get his hands on this beastly ride? Who was this Glasdou and who was bankrolling him? If I'm to drag race my demon, then I'm picking the music. I pull my jacket off the passenger seat, shake it so that the glass from the window falls down, reach in and pull out a CD. I slip the disc in to the car audio system and The Black Angel's The Vietnamese War commences. Ok, so someone explain to me the rules of a drag race with a demon. Is this like Two Lane Blacktop? Are we stopping for one another? Are we helping each other? Is it about the journey and not the destination? Is it about the friends we make along the way? Something told me this guy wasn't known for his fair play awards. I tightened my grip on the wheel, letting my veins pop out and kept both eyes locked on the road ahead.

We drive for days without rest. From sun up 'til sun down. I remain in the lead but the lack of sleep leaves me groggy. I'm creeping over the white line to the other side of the road. If I continue like this, I'm going to be hit head on by opposite traffic. A fate too embarrassing to accept. There's only one thing for it, I'm going to have to set a trap. I make a quick stop off at shop, pick up a set off knives, get my Kevin McCallister DIY head on, attach the knives to a plank of wood, cover it with a stack of leaves, then I set this down in the road and wait for Glasdou.

He doesn't quite see it coming in time and rides over the trap, crashing in to a nearby tree. Nervously creeping forward, I go over to investigate whether his demise be true. It's hard to see in the vehicle with the smoke coming from it and so I have to take a big risk getting close to my prey. As I open the car door to go in for the kill, an arrow is fired in to my knee. I hop back to my car, wrap my lips round a whiskey bottle, snap the larger part of the arrow and drive to the nearest pharmacy. My need for medical attention out weights my need to kill. On the verge of passing out from the pain, I wonder the aisles of the pharmacy looking for supplies. Blood drips down my leg and I care little for the items I knock from the shelf whilst searching for what I need. The pharmacist looks at me in a confused state as I slap everything down in front of him. He doesn't scan the items before him and only says, "I can make this all stop". What the fuck did he mean? I didn't have time for this. Glasdou could waltz through the entrance at any minute. I anxiously glance behind me, expecting to see him enter and kill us all. "What?", I ask the pharmacist. "I can make it so you longer have to see him", states the pharmacist. How does he know about Glasdou? A bluff, a random guess, it had to be. The pharmacist slides a pill across the counter and says, "all you have to do is take this pill and it all stops". "What do you mean it just stops?", I follow up. "Everything. It all stops", adds the pharmacist.

Before I can make up my mind the pharmacist before me no longer has a head and his brains are splattered all down my shirt. I look up to see Glasdou's reflection in the mirror and this saves my life. In one fluid motion, I dive across the counter and slide all my supplies with me to avoid the blast of Glasdou's shotgun. The sound of the shells form a symphony with Ron Gallo's Kill the Medicine Man. This Glasdou doesn't give up. When he pauses to reload, I take my opportunity and haul it through a back door staff exit. No point confronting him, just run. One foot in front of another. Any direction that isn't his. By the time, I stop it's night, I'm surrounded by trees and he could be behind any one of them. As I venture further in to the woods, all I can hear is a continuous refrain of, "God's Away on Business", from the Tom Waites song. Who was watching over us and where was the receptionist I could leave a message with? The gathering of the lost boys. We're just children left to play in the wood all alone.

In the distance, I can hear music coming from a nearby house. Was I back to civilisation? There were no other houses around but this one. Strange place to lay the fort but this did not matter right now. Shelter and a good night's rest was what I needed. Somewhere someone was playing Blind Willie Johnson's "Let Your Light Shine on Me". On this bad leg, I hobbled towards the source of the sound. A record was spinning with the eerie crackles of age on a player by the front entrance. Alongside it, the dusty old post box I gave a rub down revealed this unmistakably uninviting home to be the Grigg's residence. I wondered if anyone was at home and would they greet me with open arms? The return of the son.

Knocking produced no response, the door slid right open. Abandoned? I took a step back and noticed the vines growing up the sides of the walls. Federal architecture. This could have stood here since the 18th century. It felt as part of its surroundings as the trees that were now growing up it. No human hand had touched this place for years. About the only location you could expect to find Federal architecture these days was Salem. Make of that what you will. Another record player inside was playing Moss's Dragged to the Roots Ceremonial Sacrifice and The Revelation of Darkness on Motion. As haunting as it was, I'd rather take my chances indoors rather than out with Glasdou. Onwards, I plodded. Inside there was a well-dressed butler to greet me. He escorted me through the house and its various rooms. Each had something even more horrifying than the last. In the first room, was the vintage green 1909 Goldman Bankers lamp I'd seen earlier. When a hunched shadow appeared on the wall, I quickly shut the door behind me and scrambled after the butler. I'd seen enough in there. Behind room number 2 was an old decaying woman sat on the floor with hairs falling off her head and blood seeping out of her crusty hands and permanently ruined finger nails from scratching at the floorboards. Noticing me triggered an angry response. She jumped up and shouted, "you know what I do when I go there? Do you know what I think about?". A man drenched in sweat and needle marks up his arms, calmly said, "One of you has to go". Even when I slammed the door shut, the old lady continued to bang on it and scream without any care for hurting herself. None of this had any effect on the completely composed butler who continued to smile and gestured me to follow him on through the house.

Door number 3 had the most warped and twisted exhibition yet. I stood memorised, unsure how to respond. A man with a giant grotesque cockroach head was committing an act of sodomy with a woman who had the body of a cricket. All while the woman is sniffing a green powder from the man's finger. With his other hand this roachoid freak smeared the green powder up and down his antennas stretching out from the sides of his gnarly cockroach face. That was the true face of horny. Everything faltered in comparison.

He opened his mouth and involuntarily drooled all over his own shoes. What a bastard. The build-up of sweaty green residue dripped from the antennas on to the floor. He tried to suck this back up but then remembered cockroaches can't suck. They don't have the mouth for it. Any scientist can tell you that. I looked over at my host, the butler, as if to say, "does this get you off, do you condone this, you fucking creep?" and he stared back expressionless. On exit, he tells me, "butler's see but butlers do not interfere". Now, I was really starting to shit my pants. What on earth could he show me in room 4 to top the unforgettable horrors of room number 3? Surely, the ante could not be upped. Send my apologies to M.O.P. The butler descended in to the basement. Oh no, maybe this could get worse. Basements are inherently scary. No-one ever had a good word to say about them. A culmination of every child's nightmare but it had to manifest somewhere. I had to think twice before going down. But down I went limping to my doom. My heart raced and every step triggered palpitations. What was down in the Griggs's basement lying in wait for me? I braced up tight. Ready to strike at anything that could attack me. How much more of this could a man take? To my surprise the basement was almost completely empty. And somehow this was the greatest horror of all. A graveyard for used furniture left behind that its owners were unable to sell. I sat down on the crumbling sofa in the corner and rubbed my hands against its torn surface. The nearly clear floor way drew my attention to the walls. "Why are the walls like that?", I asked the butler. "The yellow? Acidic residue leads to discolouring", he answered. "Acidic residue?", I fired back. "From the fires, Jacob. From all the times you've burned this place to the ground", recalled the butler. This sent a shiver down my spine and I no longer felt comfortable sitting.

I'd been here before? Why couldn't I remember? "How many times have I burnt it down?" is the first sentence that manages to scurry out my mouth. "3 times. Once in 2015. Once in 2017 and once more in 2021", the butler informs me. "Why", I ask. "Every time the world loses its meaning. When the truth settles in. When pessimism wins", says the butler. "Do I burn it because the world loses its meaning or does the world lose its meaning because I burn it?", I question further. "I guess it's one and the same. All I know is you get close to the end, you have a change of heart and rebuild it. Happens every time", discloses the butler. Without thinking I add, "you are not wrong who deem". "One must contain his fears, he must be free to roam amongst them but they cannot overpower him. One must live to build one's house and not build one's house to live in. Careful not to cross the matches. For birth is a complete jigsaw and life is a broken one. We go backwards when we should be going forwards. Such is the fascination with the womb. But sometimes the pieces just don't go back together", mentions the butler speaking in total riddles. I decided to fire back one of my own with, "and if our love was just a circus you'd be a clown by now". As I re-enter the outside world, the music has stopped, the sun is rising and dawn has arrived. Gold and brown leaves fly across the front door as if they have a life of their own. Looking up I see Glasdou with his arms folded, leaning on the hood of his black AMC. Slowly, I shuffle towards my own white Road Runner which has miraculously spawned here and is parked up waiting for me like some video game. Literally, the second I enter my ride, Ty Segall's Low Rider is spewing out from the speakers causing me to smile. I drop the clutch, look into the rear view mirror and Glasdou is still standing waiting completely unmoved. Even when I've seductively revved my engine 6 times, he is maintaining the same stationary pose. Had he given up on the chase?

I drive forwards. 10 yards, no movement. 20 yards no movement. 30 yards no movement. Finally, at 100 yards distance between us, he walks back to his ride and let's his engine roar. A headstart, hey? Who knew old Glasdou was sporting after all? Give that man a fair play award. As King Theoden said, "So it begins". The race was on.

Hours of pursuit leads to a last stop. Right at the centre of the universe, I make a stop and Glasdou does 13 donuts round my car. "Life's curious canter" I think to myself. Out of SPACE-Out of TIME. He exits his car, grabs my shoulders and spins me in the direction of Hazelhurst Road, Worsley. A small village just west of Manchester. Glasdou and I walk shoulder to shoulder like two men on a mission and enter a 3 bedroom house. Inside, my mother and father sit in the living room watching the Euro 2004 quarter final between England and Portugal. Outside, I see the old garden that once housed two innocent rabbits until they were eaten by a hungry fox when we left to go on a summer holiday. We were told they ran away to be free. It was only years later we were given the heart breaking truth. No Pet Sematary for those innocent bunnies. Sat rolled up in a ball on a bean bag the living room floor is a young Jacob Kelly, who is fixated on the television, where the fate of the country lies. England's greatest hope Wayne Rooney, after a sparkling start to his international career, firing goals in and terrorising French maestro Zinedine Zidane, has just gone down injured. The commentator gives us the tragic words: "The national treasure that is Wayne Rooney is going to be put away prematurely for the rest of this game. Hopefully to be revived for next Wednesday's semi final. Darrius Vassell, who has figured in all 3 of the group games will take his place. But nobody, but nobody, could replace Wayne Rooney in the countries heart's at this moment". My father shrugs and says, "It's like Frank Sinatra said, That's Life".

Director: David Gordon Green Screenplay: David Gordon Green, Danny McBride, Peter Sattler Cinematography: Michael Simmonds Music: David Wingo, Amman Abbasi

Production Company: My least favourite people Distribution: Universal Pictures

Country: USA

Bonus Points: -The montage when the two girls are found and examined. That's it. That's the only good thing I can say about it

Run Time: 111 mins Budget: 30 mil but looks about 1 mil Plot Synopsis: An exorcism minus an exorcist.

Overall Score: 0.5/5