A spinning head, projectile green vomit, loud obscenities—these are the most famous scenes in William Friedkin’s The Exorcist (1973). They’ve invited fear and parody. The film endures, and its meaning moves beyond the body horror of the demon possession. Adapted from the 1971 eponymous novel by William Peter Blatty (who also wrote the screenplay), Friedkin’s film explores the story of a 12-year-old girl, Regan MacNeil (Linda Blair), who becomes possessed by a demon. Her mother, Chris (Ellen Burstyn), is a film actress, who appears to be divorced or at least separated from her husband and Regan’s father.
Chris and Regan are living a mostly normal life in Georgetown where Chris is shooting a new film. Things begin to change when Regan complains that her bed shakes at night and she’s feeling ill at ease. One might assume that this is just adolescence and changes brought on by puberty. In fact, there are many film and feminist theories that explore that avenue of interpretation. But what if The Exorcist is mostly an excellent horror film?
The pivotal change comes when Regan urinates on the floor in front of party goers at the house. Things begin to take a worse turn with Regan’s psychotic behavior. Chris is seeing every possible doctor and surgeon but nobody’s able to give her an answer. Biologically and physically speaking, there’s nothing wrong with Regan.
Concurrently to Chris’ story, we witness the life of a Jesuit priest, Fr. Damien Karras (Jason Miller). He’s having difficulties of his own. We see a man struggling to make sense of his vocation as a priest, and who’s on the brink of losing his faith completely. He may not be possessed by a demon but through despair, he’s directed away from God.
Fr. Damien and Chris meet when she, having exhausted medical avenues, decides Regan should have an exorcism. Fr. Damien is unsure whether he can perform an exorcism alone. In addition, he’s initially hesitant to even accept demonic possession as an answer to Regan’s condition. He’s a trained psychiatrist in addition to being a priest.
Joining Fr. Damien is Fr. Lankester Merrin (Max von Sydow), a man we meet at the beginning of the film on an archaeological dig in Northern Iraq. Fr. Merrin is haunted by demons of his own. He appears as a man of great wisdom, open-minded intellectualism, and experience who also knows what “the Devil” can accomplish when it gets hold of a human being.
Merrin warns Damien about the inevitability of exorcism. The dark power will overwhelm us if we let it, and Damien isn’t as strong as Merrin to understand that. “I think the point is to see us despair,” says Merrin to Damien. “To see ourselves as animal and ugly. To reject the possibility that God would love us.”
It’s not extremely important whether we believe that demonic possession is possible, or if it’s merely an explanation of the psychological symptoms. The point is to make us question the faith and reason, and hopefully arrive at the logical conclusion in which, in its true catholicity, the two elements of life work in concert.
Friedkin creates a sense of dread throughout the film that’s more grounded in the mystical and supernatural rather than the physicality we find in a body horror film. Regan’s contortions, ancient tongues, incoherent gibberish, and demonic voices add an element that’s found in other horror films that concern demons, ghosts, and various possessions. However, the impending doom or the conclusion of it, is perpetually vibrating and making itself known in the film—whether it’s with the fated stairs or Chris’ casual walking through Georgetown, accompanied by Mike Oldfield’s “Tubular Bells.”
It’s during one of these strolls through the town that Chris overhears Damien speaking with another priest. At this point, she only knows of Damien but hasn’t met him formally. A person of either atheism or agnosticism, Chris is strangely intrigued by the nearby church and the many Jesuits that are in Georgetown, thanks to the university. She’s not necessarily interested in conversion but we get a sense that she’s curious about the spiritual path of life.
She passes by the church, and there in its courtyard, beyond the iron gates, Fr. Damien appears to be giving advice to a younger priest, who’s experiencing doubts. Damien assures him that it’s nothing to worry about. In a brief but eloquent moment, Damien says, “There’s not a moment when I don’t feel like a fraud.” It’s a moment of vulnerability, and Jason Miller plays Damien with such intensity of a man, whose interior life is composed of torture. The spiritual cleansing never seems to arrive.
This moment of informal confession and the feeling of being a fraud is what brings the film together. Although brief in its presentation, it speaks to the human condition. Are we metaphysical frauds or are we living in truth? Are we living performatively or are we vulnerable and real as we stand before our fellow human beings and God?