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

Production Company: My least favourite people

Distribution: Universal Pictures

Country: USA

Run Time: 111 mins

Plot Synopsis: An exorcism minus an exorcist.

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

Overall Score: 0.5/5