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Think about this for a minute: a movie – a horror movie – returns for an ostensibly limited trial revival 27 years after initial release. It comes in second at the boxoffice, earning a virtually equal take, to a juvie shocker sequel (Urban Legends: The Final Cut) which opened in four times as many theaters, prompting the distributor to double the number of prints in circulation. Three weeks later the knockoff has disappeared from the top ten, but the classic has earned a fresh $30 million and is still going strong.
In a perfect world, somebody would learn a lesson from this. Meanwhile, in Hollywood, Scream 4 and Freddie vs. Jason are in the works.
The Exorcist, which was once condemned by Billy Graham as having an actual demon present with every print, is so terrifying that when I saw it the first time it scared me out of going to college. Seeing it again, in a dark theater, cleaned up (the movie, not me) and with a few scenes restored, just reinforced my admiration for William Friedkin, who probably lost the Best Director Oscar in 1974 only because he had won one it two years earlier for The French Connection, and William Peter Blatty, who by serving as both producer and scriptwriter ensured that the fury of his novel wouldn’t get diluted in translation (he won the Best Adapted Screenplay Oscar). Despite becoming rather inured in the interim to make-believe horror, thanks to John Carpenter, George Romero, and Quake II, I still left the theater with the desire to sprinkle some water on my Nissan and quote a little Latin before starting it up, just in case.
Though none of the mercurial Friedkin’s other films have proved as memorable, juxtaposing his spiritum opus with such boogedy hoodoo pretenders as Lost Souls (see below), another film about demonic possession coincidentally arriving in the Upstate this week, only serves to underscore what a masterpiece The Exorcist remains. Sure, he put his actors – Ellen Burstyn, Max von Sydow, Jason Miller, and especially 12-year-old (and forever doomed to B-moviedom) Linda Blair – through more earthly hell to elicit their unsettled, off-balance contributions (they were variously slapped, thrown, frozen, sprayed, bound, and even shot at with blank guns). Mike Oldfield’s foreboding score, complete with that unforgettable piano riff, and the transforming artistry of makeup wizard Dick Smith (who taught Rick Baker) didn’t hurt either. But Friedkin’s chief accomplishment was showing how much more desirable, and difficult, it is to inspire dread by carefully crafting images than by simply tossing an axe-wielding maniac onscreen. The long opening sequence, set at and around an archeological dig in pre-antagonistic Iraq, goes on for several minutes without any specific “boo” but establishes the unshakeable feeling that, once the action shifts to a quiet townhouse in suburban Washington, D.C., something beyond the usual movie terror is brewing.
Groundbreaking, seminal films deserve a chance to find new fans beyond video. A Hard Day’s Night is being rereleased this fall, so with some luck maybe we’ll get to see it too. But unless they’ve added a scene where Paul McCartney’s head turns all the way around, it’s going to seem rather tame. A+
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