The Exorcist (1973)

Even though it's never necessarily been said out loud, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences harbors a near complete aversion to the horror genre. As of the date of this writing, February 6th, 2024, only five horror films have been nominated for the Best Picture Oscar. Five. (Okay, six if you include Darren Aronofsky's Black Swan, which I personally consider to be a psychological drama, hardly even a thriller, but that's a debate for a different time.) The last entry in the genre to receive its fair share of award nominations was M. Night Shyamalan's ghost story masterpiece, The Sixth Sense, in 1999, breaking into the 2000 award ceremony with six nominations, including movie of the year. It may have gone home with no wins, but it's the consideration that matters above all else. 18 years later, sketch comedian-turned-master of modern suspense Jordan Peele overturned the stubborn academy's genre prejudice with the arrival of his groundbreaking, socially conscious spin on the possession subgenre in Get Out, Peele's audacious feature directorial debut which won the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay, making it the first, and currently only, horror film made in the 21st century to not only receive Oscar nominations, but to walk home with a gold statuette by the end of the night.

However, while the only title to achieve the award for Best Picture, along with four other significant victories, remains Jonathan Demme's 1991 psychological serial killer thriller, The Silence of the Lambs (and make no mistake, if it had to be only one, the Academy unquestionably made the right choice), there's still one horror film that received more nominations than any other. A total of ten, to be precise. The first horror film to ever so much as receive the nomination for Best Picture in 1974, William Friedkin's boundary-shattering demonic head-twister, The Exorcist, took the moviegoing public by storm, laying waste to the subtle, clean, largely suggestive brand of horror utilized by Roman Polanski in Rosemary's Baby, the moralistic, campy-by-modern standards approach favored by James Whale for his mad scientist/monster movies, Frankenstein and The Invisible Man, and the fun, lighthearted, spine-tingling benevolence of William Castle in House on Haunted Hill. 

Fifty years after it first haunted the silver screen and sent innumerable audience members, eager but hopelessly ill-prepared for the experience, running from the theater, vomiting into their popcorn, and fainting in the aisles, The Exorcist still maintains the potency to shock, offend, nauseate, and most importantly, terrify, despite the countless parodies and imitations that have unfortunately desensitized modern audiences to some of the movie's most astonishing set pieces and even provoked derisive snickers among younger crowds. No matter. What Friedkin and William Peter Blatty, the latter of whom adapted the screenplay from his own novel of the same name, crafted together remains nothing short of an out-and-out masterpiece of supernatural horror, a movie so violent, provocative, timeless, blasphemous, nerve-racking, and emotionally draining that nothing could ever hope to dilute its otherworldly magic. Not the cartoonish parodies that try, without success, to make a mockery of the once-groundbreaking practical effects. Not the abundance of likeminded demonic possession thrillers that have been produced in the years since, some of which have offered their own take on the formula and distinguished themselves admirably from their inspiration (the most successful of the lot being James Wan's The Conjuring and Ari Aster's Hereditary), while most have gone down as pathetic, embarrassingly derivative imitations (the worst offenders: The Amityville Horror -- original and remake, take your pick -- and The Devil Inside). And certainly not the irrevocable passage of time, which has seen an advancement in cinematic technology but nothing approaching the trailblazing originality and wholly unforeseen trauma and terror served up by this 1973 concoction.

Over the title card presented in large blood-red letters against a pitch-black screen, we hear the haunting, incomprehensible hum of voices, clearly religious and solemn. The first post-title onscreen image is that of a scintillating sun set against a beautiful orange sky. The setting is Northern Iraq at a desert. Hundreds of Muslims are excavating the grounds for ancient artifacts. Among them is a Caucasian archaeologist and priest named Lankester Merrin (Max Von Sydow), who discovers a broken portion of a mysterious statue, the head of a figure he immediately seems to recognize... with dread. While it would be difficult to make a case for The Exorcist as boasting one of the most terrifying opening scenes in horror history along the lines of Halloween, Friday the 13th, Jaws, Scream, or my unsurpassable favorite, The Ring, this is still a uniquely, subtly disquieting introductory sequence. Friedkin allows everything to unfold slowly and quietly so as to absorb the audience in his bizarre, foreign, dreamlike atmosphere, a choice the director will not betray at any point during the remainder of the film. The shot of the cave where Father Merrin will search for remains instantly builds a feeling of anticipation and mystery. What could possibly be lurking in that darkened space? And who wouldn't get the chills at the mere thought of putting yourself in there?

Deeply troubled by his seemingly inanimate discovery, Father Merrin decides to leave the digging site at once to travel elsewhere, encountering a few vaguely unsettling sights and happenings along the way: while crossing the street, he's nearly run over by a carriage, in the back of which is an elderly woman, veiled, wrinkled, toothless, and smiling at our perturbed hero; inside an office where he's divulging his absence to a disappointed colleague, the clock suddenly stops; and finally, while standing atop a mountain facing the life-size statue of Pazuzu, a tall, slender, winged demon with bared fangs and a snake in place of a penis, a pack of dogs abruptly become aggressive and start fighting with each other. The Exorcist is chock-full of legendary, unforgettable images, the first of which is the symbolic shot of Father Merrin standing across from the demon's statue, a metaphor for the eternal battle between the forces of good and evil. A major reason why this opening is as effective and gripping as it is, besides its unconventional setting and ominous imagery, is because of Von Sydow's near silent performance. The actor uses his expressive eyes, which house an unmistakable apprehension and world-weary fatigue, to let us know something is extremely wrong here, and it's something he has dealt with long ago, and must now face once again. His situation is exacerbated by the trembling of his hands, which could be read as an expression of fear, but once Merrin takes out a small pill to place on his tongue, it becomes apparent his heart is not in the sufficient condition to handle the horrors to come.

Meanwhile, in Georgetown, Washington, D.C., Chris MacNeil (Ellen Burstyn), a movie actress, is living in a rental house with her live-in nanny and personal assistant, Sharon Spencer (Kitty Winn), and her twelve-year-old precocious daughter, Regan (Linda Blair). Starring in a film directed by her close friend, Burke Dennings (Jack MacGowran), Chris appears to be living an enviously comfortable and happy life, despite being newly separated from her husband, who doesn't even have the decency to call their daughter on her birthday. (In one of the most powerfully acted horror-free scenes, Burstyn is screaming furiously at a phone operator who can't connect her with her ex, all while Blair listens silently from her bedroom with a look of muted heartbreak and disappointment.)

The only disturbance to the MacNeil's otherwise privileged existence is the persistent commotions taking place in the attic every night. Chris believes the noises are simply being generated by rats, but her housekeeper, Karl (Rudolf Schundler), who's investigated the attic, insists they don't have any. One night, Chris decides to take a look for herself, wandering up into the attic with a candle. Friedkin treats us to an insert shot of Regan lying in her mother's bed, staring into the corner of the room with a troubled expression, increasing the mood of foreboding. In a lesser version of this scene, a frightening image would have popped out at Chris and given the audience a cheap jolt. A cat would've jumped down and started her. A demonic entity would've grabbed her arm and pulled her down onto the floor, only for her to wake up in her bed, revealing the investigation as a nightmare. But under Friedkin's disciplined, unhurried direction, Burstyn walks slowly through the darkness, spotting a mouse trap on the floor with no mouse in it. The flame suddenly belches, causing her to gasp in fear. She turns around, and someone has poked their head through the scuttle attic hole: Karl, who has come to confirm his assertion that there are no rats. "No rats. Thanks a lot. That's terrific," replies Chris, a rare moment of dark humor to relieve the tension. That will be the only instance of such a luxury.

Last but not least, we are introduced to Father Damien Karras (Jason Miller), a younger priest and psychiatric counselor experiencing a crisis of faith brought on by the deteriorating health of his mother (Vasiliki Maliaros), whom he feels he has abandoned. One day while heading to his childhood apartment to pay his mother a visit and bandage her damaged leg, Damien tries in vain to convince her to move into an assisted living facility, where she can surround herself with other people, have full-time professional care, and not be left alone with nothing but her radio for company, but she stubbornly refuses to leave the only place she's ever called her home. "This is my house, and I'm not going no place!" While Damien is enjoying an Italian pasta dinner in his mother's kitchen, dipping white bread in the tomato sauce (a tactic I now exercise every time I eat a pasta dish at an Italian restaurant, thank you very much for the idea, Jason!), Mrs. Karras nonchalantly mentions that her brother came to visit her. "Really? When?" Damien asks. "Last month." Damien takes a guilt-ridden pause. 

By the time we're reunited with Damien and his mother, both of their worlds have been turned upside down. His uncle has moved her into a psychiatric hospital against her will, a circumstance for which she holds Damien personally accountable. During a late-night chat with a friend at a bar, Damien confesses that he's lost his faith and can't counsel any more patients. 

The greatest strength in Blatty's script is how he takes an intimate personal interest in the private lives and circumstances of his tortured protagonists. Long before the supernatural horror of his story is unleashed in full force, he and Friedkin expend an extraordinarily sensitive amount of time developing their characters into three-dimensional, flesh-and-blood human beings who are recognizably, agonizingly human. My heart aches for the pain and hardships that each one of them is enduring: the guilt Damien is grappling with over leaving his mother to rot away in an understaffed, nightmarish nursing home; the trauma being silently processed by Regan over the sudden absence of her father; Father Merrin's internalized struggle with his approaching mortality; and the twofold stress faced by Chris over loneliness from her divorce as well as the helplessness of witnessing her daughter fall prey to forces far beyond their control. Once the paranormal goings-on rear their ugly head, we have already come to care deeply for these four people, instilling a rooting interest in their fates and making the horror that much more effective in the bargain. 

The commencement of the horror occurs at a dinner party hosted by Chris in her luxurious home when, during a jovial group sing-along at the piano led by Damien's best friend, Father Joseph Dyer (real-life priest William O'Malley), Regan, who was previously asleep in bed, suddenly enters the living room and soberly announces to an astronaut, "You're gonna die up there." She then urinates on the carpet. Later that night, after giving Regan a bath and putting her back to sleep, Chris is startled by the screams of her daughter and the flickering of a hallway lamp. She rushes into her bedroom, her mouth agape with disbelief at the unnatural sight before her: Regan's bed is thumping up and down, and it doesn't cease once Chris gets on top of it. 

Subjecting Regan to a series of painful psychological tests, filmed in unflinching, meticulous detail by Friedkin, Chris is repeatedly informed by the bewildered doctors (who smoke freely in the office while addressing their patients) that the cause of Regan's newfound destructive and abnormal behavior must be a lesion in her temporal lobe. The most abnormal aspect of the procedure, however, is the fact that, in the end, all of Regan's test results come back negative. So of course their solution is to perform a second spinal. Once again, nothing. Everything in her brain is normal. 

From this point onward, things begin to escalate. Objects fly around Regan's bedroom. A raspy, mannish voice replaces her natural, sweet, feminine one. She goes into trances, each one more difficult to wake up from than the last. Cuts appear on her face. She begins to levitate from her bed. A large lump appears in her throat. And anyone who goes near her is at risk of being seriously injured or pushed out of a window with their head turned completely around. One of Friedkin's most innovative touches is his decision not to depict the heinous murder of Burke Dennings, but rather to have a homicide detective explain it in clinical, graphic detail. After the doctors have exhausted the possibility that whatever's going on with Regan is within her own mind, Chris is given the suggestion to seek spiritual help from Father Karras, who agrees to meet with Regan and, in a short period, deduces that the poor, innocent girl is in fact under the control of a malevolent, implacable demon who desires to settle a score with a certain "old friend" we met at the beginning.

Linda Blair was just 14 years old when she participated in the production of The Exorcist, and her physical as well as psychological commitment to the requirements of her role is never in question. In her early pre-possession scenes, Blair exudes a fitting childlike exuberance and innocence that endears us to Regan. In her first scene, she greets her mother when she gets home from filming with a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek, offering a heartfelt indication of the strong nature of their relationship. Chris asks how her day was, and Regan shares the eventful evening she had with Sharon at the park, at which the two picnicked and the former got to ride a gelding. "Oh, Mom, can't we get a horse?" Regan pleads. "Well, not while we're in Washington." "Why not?" she asks in a babyish tone and with a playfully sulky frown. 

She subsequently snatches a piece of Halloween candy from a jar and runs off, laughing mischievously as Chris chases her to the stairs and tackles her on the floor. In their following interaction, Chris is tucking Regan in bed and asking what she would like to do for her upcoming birthday. When Regan can't think of anything special, Chris offers to take her sightseeing through Washington, and before that to a movie. "I love you," says a grateful Regan, and the two share another meaningful, sustained embrace. The authentic bond between Chris and Regan represents the heart and soul of The Exorcist, and serves as the most crucial ingredient to make us care about their characters so that when Regan becomes possessed and Chris finds herself powerless to help her, the emotional impact hits like a devastating tidal wave. Even before Regan is officially introduced, we see Chris go into her bedroom in the middle of the night while she's asleep on her stomach. The window is open, letting in the cold fall air, and Chris closes it, then covers her up in blankets and gives her a quiet kiss on the head. Small details like these work wonders for establishing the unbreakable mother-daughter love that will soon be put through the wringer.

Blair has a very mature, womanly voice that belies Regan's preteen tendencies, and as a result complements the precocious personality of her character. She's wise enough to know that her mom has strong feelings for Burke, even though Chris denies this and insists that she and Burke are just good friends. As a bonus, Blatty even grants Regan a special talent for art. Specifically, she draws pictures in a scrapbook and designs animal figures out of clay. Her work may not quite be on the same level as Pablo Picasso, but the point is that she has a sufficiently developed personality as an individual human being, and isn't merely a vessel to be inhabited and maimed by a demon. 

Once the adorable, loving Regan is entirely subsumed under the cruelty and inhumanity of Pazuzu, Blair hurls herself forcefully into the physical impositions written for her, thrashing around in her bed while strapped to a harness that would repeatedly bang off her spine. In a sequence in which the bed levitates, a technical failure fractured her back, an injury that would develop into scoliosis and leave the young actress in chronic pain for years to come. Fortunately, the Academy had enough sense (and heart) to nominate the courageous Blair for Best Supporting Actress for her unwavering dedication to the project. From a dramatic acting perspective, Blair wasn't required to demonstrate the type of emotional range that would establish her as a truly magnificent child actor in the vein of Haley Joel Osment, but she captures the soul of Regan MacNeil, a cheerful, good-natured 12-year-old who loves her mother, with pinpoint precision. And her blank stares and vicious glares in the scenes where Pazuzu has taken over are a spectacle of terror in their own right.

Mercedes McCambridge took over the vocal portion of the possession scenes, and while Blair was the only half of the Regan/Pazuzu team that acquired an Oscar nomination, McCambridge's iconic work as the voice of Pazuzu is not to be overlooked for a second. Blair may have delivered the terrifying facial expressions and moved her lips to match the words of her possessor, but they would have been deprived of their power had it not been for the brilliant method acting of McCambridge, who swallowed raw eggs, chain-smoked cigarettes, and drank alcohol, literally obliterating her own health, in order to achieve the perfect amount of hoarseness. None of the artificially enhanced demon voices that we would hear nowadays can hold a candle to the genuine, non-technical growls and taunting, sadistic laughter provided by an actress at the top of her game. 

In bringing the demon to life visually, Dick Smith applied the excellent makeup effects for Linda Blair, giving her a swollen, pale face, bruises on her torso, and cuts all over her skin. In place of actual green vomit that the possessed Regan spews on the priests is pea soup, offering yet another reminder of the magic and simplicity of practical effects. If The Exorcist were to be remade for modern audiences, there's little doubt that the filmmakers would substitute the pea soup and makeup for easy CGI. Not to sound like a snob that scoffs at any instance of CGI in horror movies, I'm truly very open-minded, but there's something so pure and beautiful, that shows such dedication to the craft and creativity of filmmaking, about basic, practical effects that simply can't be surpassed by advancements in technology. It's actually surprising to consider that Smith wasn't nominated at the 1974 Academy Awards for Best Makeup. His work is just as deserving as Chris Walas' for his transformation of Jeff Goldblum in The Fly.

Jack Nitzsche composed the beautiful, eerie theme music that initially plays when Chris, following her day on set with Burke, decides to walk home instead of taking her car. Leaves are blowing about in the wind, children are running excitedly down the sidewalks trick-or-treating. The atmosphere is as specific as the season, tranquil and chilly. Two women are shown wearing habits, either dressed up as nuns for Halloween or actual nuns working in the church behind Burke's movie set. A lot of religious iconography is featured throughout The Exorcist, and oftentimes it's disfigured. At one point, a priest is delivering flowers to the church when he stumbles across a ghastly (to a priest, anyway) sight: the statue of the Virgin Mary has been desecrated, someone (or something) having placed two protruding breasts and an erect penis on it. In a nightmare of Damien's, quite possibly the most emotionally accurate interpretation of a nightmare I've ever seen in a film, he sees his mother desperately calling out for him at the top of a subway. He's standing in the street silently screaming back to her, waving his hands in the air. No matter how loudly he screams, his voice is inaudible, and so is hers. The St. Joseph medallion he wears is slowly falling. Mrs. Karras continues to silently scream, "Dami," but she can neither see nor hear her son. As Damien runs as fast as he can toward her, she turns around and walks back down the steps into the subway in despair. The medallion ultimately lands on the blackness, symbolizing Damien's complete loss of faith.

There are two sequences that make The Exorcist the most harrowing horror film I've ever seen to date. The first, which may arguably be the most heart-wrenching, is utterly devoid of supernatural content. Damien is escorted by his uncle to the psychiatric hospital where his mother has been institutionalized. He looks through a window at the other patients, all of whom are female, crying, disheveled. It looks like a nursing home straight out of a nightmare of we would imagine a nursing home to look like. Damien makes his way to the end of the room where his mother is sleeping in a bed. It's a painfully long walk, exacerbated by the deranged patients clinging to him, pleading for his spiritual guidance and comfort. A nurse gently pulls some of them away. Damien yanks his arm from one woman. He approaches his mother, asleep with a tear dotting her cheek. "Mama, it's Dami, Mama," he whispers. Recognizing the sound of her son's voice, Mrs. Karras awakens and asks, "Dami, why did you do this to me, Dami? Why?" The look of devastation on Miller's face, the sorrow in his eyes, punches me in the stomach harder than any demon could. Damien tries to console his mother, assuring her he is going to take her home, but she turns her head away unforgivingly and rants unceasingly in Greek. Shortly thereafter, Damien pounds his frustration and powerlessness away on a punching bag, referencing his former career as a boxer.

The most viscerally harrowing sequence occurs when Regan, under the possession of Pazuzu, stabs herself repeatedly in the vagina with a crucifix, shouting in the demon's voice, "Let Jesus fuck you. Let Jesus fuck you." Chris tries to wrestle the crucifix out of her daughter's unnaturally strong hands, and Regan grabs her mother's head, shoves it into her bloody vagina, and demands, "Lick me." Chris gasps for air, and at just that moment, Regan smacks her across the face, knocking her onto the floor. She screams in pain. "Chris? Mrs. MacNeil!" Sharon screams as she races toward the bedroom, but a chair slides on its own and blocks the door. A bureau then moves toward Chris, who crawls away in time to see Regan's head spin around 360 degrees. "Do you know what she did?" asks Pazuzu in the voice of the recently deceased Burke. "Your cunting daughter." Chris lets out an anguished, reverberating cry. Horror doesn't get much more jaw-dropping and legitimately chill-inducing than this one go-for-broke gross-out set piece.

Make no mistake, there is not a single weak link in the cast that Friedkin has rounded up. Having said that, there are two performances that, by design, outshine the rest. As Chris MacNeil, an emotionally exhausted mother who will stop at nothing to get her little girl back, and Damien Karras, a man of God wrestling with his own beliefs while trying to offer comfort and peace to others, Ellen Burstyn and Jason Miller deliver by far the most stellar performances of the movie. To be fair, they are the two actors tasked with the most acting responsibility, primarily from an internal standpoint, but neither comes up even the least bit short. Both Miller and Burstyn received Oscar nominations for their phenomenally committed and gut-wrenching work here, and I would be hard-pressed to decide which actor was more deserving. They each strip themselves emotionally naked and lay bare the raw, inconceivable torment gradually devouring their put-upon characters' souls. Miller is required to give a more quiet, contemplative performance, allowing us to witness the uncertainty, remorse, shame, guilt, anger, and grief on his face and behind his sorrowful eyes. Damien isn't demonstrative with his pain, as evidenced when his mother intuitively senses a deep unhappiness lurking within, to which he calmly repeats, "Mama, I'm alright. I'm fine. Really, I am."

Chris, on the other hand, is an emotionally open book, and as portrayed by Ellen Burstyn, a vigorously expressive one at that. Her reaction while watching her daughter get a needle inserted into her neck from behind an observation window is painstakingly true, and as someone who isn't squeamish, I couldn't help but cringe a little at the unnecessary pain Reagan was being subjected to by doctors who just didn't know better. Burstyn's emotional involvement throughout The Exorcist is staggering in its commitment. Every time Friedkin points the camera at her face and zooms in for a close-up, I can feel her stress, exhaustion, despair, and outrage. The physicality of Burstyn's performance just might supersede the suppressed torture of Miller's, as she acts her heart out not only through her eyes, but her throat as well. Listen to the guttural howl she lets out after Regan, in the middle of her first demonic fit in her bedroom in front of a doctor, smacks herself in the face, leaving a painful welt. Friedkin holds the camera steady on Burstyn and Winn in the following shot for a long take, both women sitting beside each other on the top of the stairs, Burstyn with a tissue pressed against her face while a sympathetic Winn stares at her. Here is a director who truly cares about his own characters, who uses his camera to express a compassion for the suffering they're going through, and to elicit the compassion of the viewers on the other side of the screen forced to undertake this ordeal alongside them, powerless to intervene. 

When the doctors come out of Regan's bedroom, having sedated her to ensure she'll sleep through the next day, Chris asks them how she could've levitated from her bed the way she did, and they once again attribute the problem to her temporal lobe. "Oh, what are you talking about, for Chrissakes? Did you see her or not? She's acting like she's fucking out of her mind, psychotic, like a... split personality or..." The way Burstyn raises her voice at "not?" and becomes incapable of finishing her sentence is flawless in timing and character perception. 

Investigating the bizarre desecrations in the church and the inexplicably violent death of Burke is Lieutenant William Kinderman (Lee J. Cobb), a homicide detective who strikes up an instant friendship with Father Karras and believes a very powerful man must be responsible. Cobb most likely doesn't receive enough credit for his outstanding supporting performance. Even though he shows up fairly late in the proceedings, he still leaves a significant impression, his imposing physique and authoritative voice juxtaposed with a tender, quirky spirit. During his first conversation with Damien on a track, he lightly badgers the priest for any information he can divulge about patients who may fit the description of the killer, and when Damien denies any knowledge of such a patient, Kinderman reveals himself as a movie buff who gets passes to the best shows in town, and invites Damien to join him. That one unexpected trait of his character instantly draws me to him, as I myself can personally relate when he says, "I love to talk film... discuss, to critique." The energy that Cobb invests into his lines is extremely delightful to listen to, and the lighthearted, engaging dialogue between him and Miller earns my investment between the scenes of vomit-spewing, blood-soaked action.

Another great dialogue is exchanged between Kinderman and Chris in the latter's kitchen over coffee. He interrogates her about the night of Burke's death that took place in Regan's bedroom, and when Chris denies any knowledge about what could've happened, even though she has already secretly considered the possibility of her daughter being partially responsible, Kinderman doesn't resort to threats or intimidation to get answers out of her. He simply asks her to ask her daughter when she wakes up from her sedatives, then politely asks for an autograph for his daughter, who's allegedly a big fan of Chris'. Once Chris asks for his daughter's name, Kinderman hesitates and reveals, with an endearingly embarrassed smile, "I lied, it's for me." 

Toward the confrontational climax, Father Merrin is summoned to assist Damien in Regan's exorcism, two holy men of God going to battle against a vulgar, unrelentingly evil demon in a fight to rescue the soul of an innocent 12-year-old girl. When Merrin arrives at the home where this internal struggle will take place, cinematographer Owen Roizman captures the most legendary and often imitated image of the movie, so legendary in fact that it was used as the original poster: Von Sydow exits a taxi cab and stands motionless in the blackness of the night at the front of the house, briefcase in hand, illuminated by the white and blue fog emanating from the upstairs window. Inside Regan's bedroom is a feat of production design, an ice-cold hell-scape bathed in baby blue coloring, where condensation is expelled from the mouths of all three characters. The exchanges between Pazuzu and the priests are steeped in homophobia and vulgarity, deliberate abominations against Catholicism. With a less talented voice actress delivering the lines, they could've come across as empty provocation, maybe even campy as some contemporary critics have claimed, but with McCambridge spitting out these insults with vile, reprehensible glee, they manage to sting regardless of the listener's religious background.

Brief, almost subliminal shots of horrifying visuals elevate the atmosphere of anticipation and encroaching doom. In Damien's nightmare, while he's running toward his mother, and during the exorcism of Regan, Friedkin presents a quick cutaway shot of a demonic, blue, glaring face, signifying the transfer of Pazuzu from Regan to Damien. In another shot, Damien is staring pensively at Regan in her bed, but for a moment, the image is that of his mother, sitting up and staring at him in a white hospital gown, her face as white as snow. 

Throughout many of the conversations between characters, the actors are directed to speak in hushed voices, which imbues The Exorcist with a quiet, pensive ambience. Friedkin punctuates that quietness with a series of ear-splitting attacks, making them all the more jarring to the senses. Take the scene when Lt. Kinderman leaves the MacNeils' home after speaking with Chris. She walks him out, locks the door and finds herself alone, not knowing what she wants to do. During this moment of silence and serenity, Regan begins screaming, a masculine voice utters, "You bitch!", and loud crashes are heard as objects are thrown around the bedroom.

The climactic exorcism sequence is as chilling as it is heartbreaking, with Damien realizing the only way he can save Regan's soul is by allowing the demon to take his. Father Merrin is found unresponsive on Regan's bed, possibly having died from a heart attack foreshadowed earlier. Damien pounds on his chest, desperately trying to revive him, but it's no use. Pazuzu giggles like a mischievous child, taking delight in the priest's suffering, and Damien grabs her and begin pummeling her on the floor, screaming, "Take me!" The demon yanks his medallion off his neck, Damien looks up with a blank expression, and Regan begins crying incessantly like the child she is, wanting her mother. A devilish face appears for a split second on Damien's, his eyes turning sickly green and his complexion blue, and disappears when he screams, "No!" refusing to carry out Pazuzu's evil. He throws himself through the window and tumbles down a flight of stairs, sacrificing his own life in the most gruesome manner imaginable. Chris and Lt. Kinderman rush into the bedroom to find Father Merrin dead on the floor, the previously fixed window smashed open once more, and Regan sobbing in the corner for her mother. Chris realizes the child cowering on the floor is her daughter, and she collapses to her knees and embraces the child, shedding tears of both agony and happiness with her. It's an equally grotesque, heartbreaking, and uplifting climax, a marriage of triumph and tragedy. Not everything is resolved beautifully for all involved, but Regan is given her life back, and Chris is permitted to hold her daughter in her arms again for the first time in too long of a while.

Not all horror movies, including some of the best, maintain their ability to frighten and shock. It's through no fault of the filmmakers. What was once groundbreaking and transgressive in the 1920s-1960s just doesn't hold up as well in 2024. That's not to say those achievements should be looked at as unworthy of consideration. The shower scene in Psycho may not terrify modern audiences with its dramatic music and lack of onscreen gore, but the editing is still remarkable enough to be commended by true film fanatics, and the implicit execution of the violence is more artful and suggestive than any display of viscera, or graphic decapitations and dismemberments. When it comes to William Friedkin's The Exorcist, though, nothing could possibly be considered outdated. The makeup effects and puppetry are just as sickening and realistic as they were at the time of their presentation. The themes of good versus evil and religious subversion are still applicable in our divided United States, where groups of people do horrible things to one another over religious disputes and hurl vitriol over their contrasting opinions on the morality of abortion. The performances from Jason Miller and Ellen Burstyn remain grounded in honest human emotion, never allowing the supernatural activity to devolve into camp or take precedence over the suffering of their characters. 

Fans of fast-paced action and gratifying gore may find their patience tested by Friedkin's deliberate pacing and emphasis on human drama, but for sophisticated horror fans, that patience is rewarded in spades with a slow-burning, harrowing, revolting, and ultimately hopeful celebration of faith, love, family, sacrifice, and the benignity of human nature. The Exorcist remains every bit as terrifying, shocking, and traumatizing in 2024 as it was in 1973. By the time the haunting theme starts up and the screen fades to black, you may feel drained by everything you've just experienced, but you're just as likely to want to re-surrender yourself to the ordeal as soon as humanly possible.

8.7/10