Joshua John Miller’s The Exorcism sets out to conjure the same dread and depth as William Friedkin’s 1973 classic The Exorcist. But instead of resurrecting the devilish brilliance of its predecessor, it stumbles into a hellishly parodic misstep, saved from total damnation only by the over-the-top desperation of Russell Crowe. The premise of The Exorcism is an irresistible concoction of meta-textual musings and genre tropes, attempting to exorcise its own demons by referencing The Exorcist at every turn.
The story follows Anthony Miller (Crowe), a washed-up actor trying to claw his way back to relevance by playing a priest in a film-within-a-film, artlessly dubbed, “The Georgetown Project” (a not-so-subtle homage to the town in which The Exorcist was set). It’s the very same creative choice that indulges in self-referential nods without establishing its own identity. The opening scenes are steeped in iconic imagery, from the fog-covered Georgetown townhouse to the infamous “cold room” where actors’ breath condenses in the frigid air.
These elements, intended as clever homages, came across as heavy-handed winks as if the film is constantly nudging you in the ribs, whispering, “Remember this? Wasn’t this scary?”. Miller’s connection to the material, as the son of Jason Miller (Father Karras in The Exorcist ), makes things intriguing but fails to translate into his work and quite honestly feels like an exercise in nepotism gone awry In a frustrating case o.
