When Genius Fails: The Tragic Farce of Exorcist II and the Documentary That Redeems It
There’s a certain voyeuristic thrill in witnessing creative disasters. Think of the trainwreck allure of Cats or the surreal incompetence of The Room. But few films occupy the bizarre intersection of ambition, ego, and calamity quite like Exorcist II: The Heretic. A new documentary, Boorman and the Devil, promises to dissect this infamous sequel—though I’d argue its true subject isn’t just the movie itself, but the seductive danger of believing genius is transferable.
The Director Who Thought He Could Conquer Hell
John Boorman had every reason to feel invincible. Fresh off an Oscar nomination for Deliverance and the cult success of Zardoz (yes, the one with Sean Connery in a speedo), he was handed the keys to Hollywood’s most lucrative nightmare. The Exorcist wasn’t just a hit; it was a cultural earthquake. But here’s what fascinates me: Boorman wasn’t a horror director. He was a storyteller obsessed with myth and masculinity, not demonic possession. What hubris—or perhaps naivety—drove him to think he could channel the infernal magic of William Friedkin’s masterpiece? Personally, I think it’s the same delusion that plagues so many artists: the belief that acclaim in one realm guarantees omniscience in another.
The Sequel That Forgot the Original’s Soul
Let’s be clear: The Exorcist worked because it weaponized ambiguity. Was Regan possessed, schizophrenic, or the center of a cosmic battle? Friedkin let the audience squirm in uncertainty. Boorman, by contrast, turned the sequel into a metaphysical lecture. The film’s infamous line—”Come, fly the teeth of the wind. Share my wings!”—isn’t just unintentionally hilarious; it’s a symptom of a deeper problem. This wasn’t horror. It was pretentious poetry dressed as a slasher. What many people don’t realize is that the script’s obsession with Carl Jung and “the Heretic” character’s psychic battles wasn’t just tone-deaf—it was a rejection of everything that made the first film terrifying.
Hollywood’s Favorite Whipping Boy Becomes a Case Study
The documentary’s real value lies in its autopsy of Hollywood’s risk-averse evolution. In 1977, Warner Bros. greenlit a sequel with a director known for arthouse thrills and a budget ballooning to $20 million (a staggering sum then). Today? A studio exec would demand test screenings, reshoots, and at least three Marvel-style post-credits teasers. Boorman and the Devil isn’t just about a film’s failure—it’s a eulogy for an era when auteurs could gamble with other people’s franchises. From my perspective, this tension between artistic ambition and commercial expectation feels more relevant than ever. Mike Flanagan’s upcoming Exorcist reboot will likely walk that same tightrope.
The Unlikely Redemption of ‘The Heretic’
Here’s a twist I never saw coming: Exorcist II might be the most fascinatingly flawed film in the franchise. Its cast alone is a masterclass in dissonance—Richard Burton reciting dialogue like “Why do you think God made women? To love men, and to suffer” with a straight face, Louise Fletcher chewing scenery as a psychiatrist with a questionable grasp of ethics, and Linda Blair, now a teenager, trapped in a role that aged about as well as a milk crate in the sun. And yet, if you take a step back and think about it, those very flaws make the film a time capsule of 1970s excess. Ennio Morricone’s score alone—a haunting blend of Gregorian chants and theremins—deserves preservation. This raises a deeper question: Can a film be both terrible and culturally vital? I’d argue yes. It’s the cinematic equivalent of a car crash you can’t look away from.
Why We Keep Returning to the Wreckage
The true legacy of Exorcist II isn’t its box office bomb status or its Razzie-winning infamy. It’s the lesson it offers about the alchemy of filmmaking. No amount of Oscar baiting (Burton’s casting), brand recognition (Exorcist sequel!), or artistic pedigree (Boorman’s résumé) can manufacture magic. What this really suggests is that horror, at its best, is unteachable. Friedkin’s film terrified because it felt real—a quality no committee, no matter how star-studded, can replicate. As the documentary revisits this cinematic car crash, I can’t help but wonder: Are we laughing at Boorman’s ambition, or mourning the death of risk-taking in modern cinema? The answer, like Regan’s demon, might be hiding in plain sight.
In the end, Boorman and the Devil isn’t just about one film’s failure. It’s a parable for the creative process itself—a reminder that even the devil’s due diligence can’t guarantee salvation. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the scariest thing of all.
