Let me tell you something that’s been gnawing at me for years: Hollywood has become a playground for safe bets. Every blockbuster these days feels like a pre-written script—predictable, polished, and devoid of the kind of chaos that once defined cinema. But here’s a documentary that’s forcing us to confront that stagnation: Boorman and the Devil, which finally gets a theatrical release this August. It’s not just about a failed sequel; it’s a mirror held up to an industry that’s forgotten how to take risks. And if you think I’m being dramatic, let me explain why this matters more than you might expect.
John Boorman’s Exorcist II: The Heretic is the kind of film that makes you question whether art should ever be judged by box office numbers. When Warner Bros. handed him the reins after The Exorcist’s seismic success, they weren’t just asking for a sequel—they were demanding a masterpiece. Boorman, bless his audacity, delivered something that defied convention: a spiritual thriller that leaned into ambiguity, existential dread, and a narrative that refused to hand audiences the comfort of clear answers. The result? A film that tanked financially and left its director scarred. But here’s the kicker: Boorman and the Devil argues that this failure wasn’t a defeat—it was a necessary evolution. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it reframes the idea of ‘failure’ in art. In an era where every project is vetted for ROI before a single frame is shot, Boorman’s willingness to gamble on something messy and unconventional feels like a relic. Yet, isn’t that what cinema was built on? The risk-takers, the visionaries who said, ‘I don’t care if this doesn’t make sense—this is what I believe in’?
The documentary isn’t just a eulogy for a forgotten film; it’s a rallying cry for the kind of boldness that’s all but vanished. Director David Kittredge, who helmed this project, says he’s ‘beyond thrilled’ that Yellow Veil picked it up. But let’s be real: this isn’t just about nostalgia. It’s about holding up a warning sign. When I watch clips from Exorcist II—the eerie shots of Regan’s possessed body, the haunting score, the deliberate pacing that feels more like a meditation than a horror film—I can’t help but think about how modern audiences are conditioned to crave instant gratification. We want jump scares, CGI explosions, and plot twists that land like thunderclaps. Boorman’s sequel, in contrast, asked us to sit with discomfort. And in a world that’s increasingly allergic to ambiguity, that’s a dangerous proposition.
What many people don’t realize is that Exorcist II’s legacy isn’t just about its box office numbers. It’s about how it reshaped Boorman’s career. The film’s failure forced him to reinvent himself, leading to later works like The Emerald Forest and The Tailor of Panama—projects that, while still ambitious, carried the scars of that earlier misstep. This raises a deeper question: Can a filmmaker truly recover from a monumental failure, or does the stigma of it linger forever? I think it lingers, but I also think it’s part of the process. Great art often comes from the ashes of what was deemed a disaster. The documentary’s interviews with Linda Blair and Louise Fletcher are especially poignant. They’re not just reminiscing about a film; they’re reflecting on a chapter of their lives that defined them. And isn’t that what makes this story so compelling? It’s not just about the film—it’s about the people who poured their souls into it, only to watch the world turn away.
If you take a step back and think about it, Boorman and the Devil is a love letter to the idea that creativity shouldn’t be measured by popularity. The film’s critical acclaim—praised by The Hollywood Reporter and IndieWire—suggests that there’s still an audience for stories that challenge rather than comfort. But here’s the rub: Will this documentary’s release reignite interest in Exorcist II itself? Or will it be another footnote in the annals of forgotten films? I’m leaning toward the former. In an age where streaming platforms resurrect cult classics with ease, there’s a chance this could be the spark that turns The Heretic from a punchline into a reconsidered masterpiece. A detail that I find especially interesting is how the documentary highlights the role of animation and motion graphics in modern filmmaking. The team behind Boorman and the Devil—including Mindbomb Films—used these tools to visually dissect the original film’s shortcomings and triumphs. It’s a reminder that even the most flawed projects can be dissected, analyzed, and reimagined through new lenses. This isn’t just about preserving history; it’s about finding new ways to engage with it.
Ultimately, Boorman and the Devil is more than a documentary. It’s a provocation. It challenges us to ask: What if we stopped measuring art by its immediate success and started celebrating the courage it takes to create something that doesn’t fit neatly into a formula? I’ll admit, I’m skeptical that Hollywood will ever return to the days of unchecked ambition. But I’m also hopeful. Every time a film like Exorcist II gets revisited, it’s a reminder that the best stories aren’t the ones that play it safe—they’re the ones that dare to be different. And if that’s not a reason to see this documentary, I don’t know what is.
