Rating: D
There was a time not so long ago that the title The Conjuring was synonymous with all that was fresh with popular horror. Oh sure, neither of the two films in the main series (not accounting for its spin-offs) were particularly original in subject matter but what they lacked in that department they more than outweighed in execution. For that, we can largely thank James Wan.
Wan, who first brought us Saw and Insidious, delivered us The Conjuring in 2013, offering a surprisingly scary take on the old horror standby, the haunted house. It is a movie that, even eight years removed from its release, still has the power to terrify and delight horror fans with its simplistic and revitalizing perspective on the form. Wan gave us just enough of a unique approach to fuel that film to over $320 million at the global box office, basically assuring us all that we would be getting more The Conjuring for years to come.
While not as good as its predecessor, Wan’s touch helped propel its sequel, the appropriately titled The Conjuring 2, to equal fortune (if somewhat lesser acclaim) with its global take equaling the original. What sets both of these films apart from other examples of modern pop horror is Wan’s indelible approach and keen eye for the subtle details that can truly get under the skin of even the most jaded of horror fanatics.
Which is a big problem for director Michael Chaves, whose previous film, The Curse of La Llorona, was one of the many lackluster entries into the expanded Conjuring universe. Chaves is a director without half the talent of his predecessor, which hampers the latest proper entry into the world of The Conjuring, The Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do It immediately out of the gate.
Where once originality was the mark of the franchise, the first few minutes of the latest chapter doesn’t waste time ripping off—excuse me, “paying homage to”—the horror classics that paved its way. One early shot, taking place during the exorcism that incites the film’s story, laughably reproduces Father Merrin’s iconic arrival scene from The Exorcist. This attempt to nod and wink wants to be clever but, instead, achieves only a display of how far this series has fallen. Mind you, this is all in the first five minutes. And it only gets worse from there.
Patrick Wilson and Vera Farmiga return to the series as famous IRL con-artists demonologists Ed and Lorraine Warren who find themselves locked in the most terrifying case of their career, or whatever. The film follows the story of Arne Cheyenne Johnson (Ruairi O’Connor) who made waves in the 80s with his plea of “the devil made me do it” after murdering his landlord. As seen in the movie, Johnson’s ordeal begins with the attempted exorcism of his girlfriend’s little brother, David (Julian Hilliard) which goes wrong when the banished demon takes his body instead. Ed and Lorraine, convinced of Arne’s innocence, set out to prove that this was no ordinary murder and is, in fact, a case of honest to god possession.
There’s a case to be made that the real life case of Johnson helped establish the Satanic Panic that gripped the minds of Americans in the 80s, though the film isn’t interested in exploring that. Instead, as per usual with this series, it takes the nuggets of…uh…”truth” provided by the Warrens (who have been debunked so many times it’s comical) and spins its story out wildly because, hey, as long as we’re making shit up let’s go whole hog.
Wilson and Farmiga, who by this point are beyond comfortable in these roles—and with good reason, since their performances are what helped drive The Conjuring and The Conjuring 2 to success—each do what they can in this outing, though neither of their talents aren’t quite enough to make any of this feel at all worth the effort, even if the film is streaming on HBOMax.
No, The Devil Made Me Do It is a film hampered by a lackluster script from screenwriter David Leslie Johnson-McGoldrick that mires the story in poor pacing and only seems interested in railroading us along from one predictable and unscary jump scare to the next. Coupled with the uninspired direction of Chaves, it’s difficult to care about anything the movie has to offer after about 60 minutes.
Which is, perhaps, the greatest sin of The Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do It. At the end of the day, we simply don’t care. We don’t care about the Warrens. We don’t care about Arne. We don’t care about the hackneyed Satanic plot spun up to fill out the laughable gaps in the “true” story. We don’t care about any of it, which makes all its attempts at frights fall terrifyingly short of its aims.
That’s a sad reality for both the film and this series. Despite misgivings about continuing to give the Warrens the air time, it’s difficult to deny The Conjuring and its first sequel had genuine and creative moments of terror that changed the game for Hollywood horror. Instead of genuine creeps like Bathsheba or The Crooked Man, we’re given generic terror that barely manages to sustain the two hours of the film’s run time.
If there’s anything good to be said about The Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do It, it’s that even at its worst, the primary entries into this universe are still vastly superior than its spin-offs. That is, perhaps, not saying much, but it does say just enough to give us hope that the series finds its footing again should we get a fourth outing with the Warrens.
The Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do It is now playing in theaters everywhere and is available to stream on HBOMax.
