Film Review of the Week

Horror

The Conjuring: Last Rites (15)

Review: In some Christian denominations, last rites are administered by a priest shortly before death to commend the faithful to a higher power before their soul ascends. It’s fitting that this should also be the subtitle of the ninth and final chapter of The Conjuring saga, the highest grossing horror franchise of all time, inspired by the real-life cases of demonologists Ed and Lorraine Warren. Bringing the story full circle from the Warrens’ abortive first case, The Conjuring: Last Rites wheezes and puffs for the best part of 90 minutes before tentatively springing to life in a final 45 minutes laden with demonic dolls and tormented spirits that lurk in the shadows.

Director Michael Chaves’s picture achieves one predictable jump scare but languishes for extended periods in limbo between gloomily atmospheric and creepy. This sombre final hurrah is the least unsettling chapter of the series with a heavy reliance on the hoary trope of characters wandering off alone into darkened basements and attics to be rewarded with a nasty surprise. Scriptwriters Ian Goldberg, Richard Naing and David Leslie Johnson-McGoldrick overstuff with extraneous detail from the Warren family tree to provide narrative closure that is neatly tied in a blood red bow with real-life photos and grainy footage over the end credits.

It’s 1986 and Ed (Patrick Wilson) and Lorraine (Vera Farmiga) have retired their spooky services to protect the husband from another heart attack and concentrate on their daughter, Judy (Mia Tomlinson), who has been blessed with the same gift of ghoulish foresight as her mother. Retired police officer Tony Spera (Ben Hardy) is dating Judy and knows a little about the family history but is still interested in a long-term commitment. Ed shows Tony around the locked room of demonic artefacts and explains that keeping these trinkets stops the evil from escaping: “We find it safer to keep the genie in the bottle.”

Soon after, the Warrens’ good friend Father Gordon (Steve Coulter) alerts them to Jack (Elliot Cowan) and Janet Smurl (Rebecca Calder) in Pennsylvania, who claim to be under siege from an evil presence. Lorraine deduces the insidious darkness is something they have encountered before – the first demon the Warrens faced when they were young and inexperienced. Older, wiser but still terrified, Lorraine and Ed brace for an epic battle with a monstrous manifestation that has been waiting patiently for the couple and their kin.

The Conjuring: Last Rites brings the mild terror full circle with a whimper that sounds like the franchise’s death rattle. Farmiga and Wilson repeat their dauntless double-act, splashing through gallons of imagined blood, while new additions Tomlinson and Hardy are slowly established as the next generation of demon-busting crusaders. Some mantles are best left untouched.

Thriller

Honey Don't! (15)

Review: Superstition suggests that bad luck comes in threes. If that’s true, it doesn’t bode well for next year’s Go, Beavers!, the concluding chapter of director Ethan Coen’s lesbian B-movie trilogy, which began with the lacklustre Drive-Away Dolls and continues to underwhelm with the loopy detective drama, Honey Don’t! All three instalments showcase the versatility of actor Margaret Qualley, seen recently as Demi Moore’s youthful foil in Oscar-nominated body horror The Substance. She is far better than this gruesome tale of a private detective blundering her way through an investigation into the suspicion death of a prospective client.

Coen’s script co-written with Tricia Cooke certainly has its diverting pleasures including a titillating bar room seduction that leaves nothing to the imagination and a playful performance from Chris Evans as a sex-obsessed reverend, who uses his questionable sermons (“We do not serve the temple by sittin’ there like macaroni!”) to groom female members of the congregation into showing their devotion to the Lord by submitting to him in the bedroom.

Evans is repeatedly naked in service of his character’s carnal desires and his blushes are spared in one amusing interlude by positioning the camera behind a co-star, blocking a clear sight line of the preacher’s stiffened resolve. Blackly humorous thriller elements venture into the same narrative territory as Coen’s work with brother Joel, including Blood Simple and Fargo, but the writing and its impact are duller. A sprightly running time limits the disappointment.

Private detective Honey O’Donahue (Qualley) works the beat in Bakersfield, California, repeatedly refusing the romantic overtures of homicide cop Marty Metakawich (Charlie Day) by plainly telling him that she likes girls. “You always say that,” he cheerfully responds, ever the optimist. Their paths cross at the scene of a fatal car accident. Honey recognises the driver as Mia Novotny (Kara Petersen), a potential client who never disclosed why she might require the help of a gumshoe.

Exploiting her police contact, MG Falcone (Aubrey Plaza), Honey tracks down Mia’s parents and learns about their daughter’s recent activities, including her willing admission to the flock of the Four-Way Temple led by charismatic reverend Drew Devlin (Evans). As Honey digs deeper into the unsavoury affair, she enjoys sexually charged encounters with MG and learns about the church’s clandestine operations, which defy teachings from The Bible.

Honey Don’t! takes a pleasant but forgettable drive through genre tropes that have served Coen well in the past. The haphazard journey and the picture’s ultimate destination are all familiar, enlivened by Qualley’s exuberant embodiment of an opportunist with a persistently high libido. Limited character development restricts the number of potential suspects for Honey to finger before she unwittingly cracks the case with a flurry of violence. Bloody and simple.

Romance

On Swift Horses (15)

Review: Daisy Edgar-Jones, Jacob Elordi and Will Poulter headline a slow-burning romantic drama set in the immediate aftermath of the Korean War, when same sex relationships were conducted behind closed doors to avoid violent repercussions and damning moral judgment. “We’re all just a hair’s breadth away from losing everything, all the time,” whispers one affected character as she sits motionless in a bar surrounded by other patrons holding their breaths, listening intently to the sound of a police raid hammering on the establishment’s front door, angrily demanding entry.

Secrets and lies breed like rabbits in On Swift Horses, a sensitively handled portrait of conflicted morality and repressed desires, adapted by screenwriter Bryce Kass from Shannon Pufahl’s novel. Cinematographer Luc Montpellier repeatedly ravishes the eyes and makes the heart swoon with breathtaking tableaux, roaming from the crisp sparkle of snow-laden landscapes in rural Kansas to the retina-searing light show of Las Vegas. Director Daniel Minahan choreographs electrically charged sex scenes between lead cast, contrasting their unabashed joy and naivete in private with the tightly coiled anxiety of their public facades. One wrong move could bring their worlds tumbling down.

Mild-mannered war veteran Lee Walker (Poulter) plans a life of quiet domesticity in California with his wife Muriel (Edgar-Jones) and younger brother Julius (Elordi). Restless after an early discharge from the US Army, Julius steals money from Lee to seek his fortune in Nevada, where he lands a job in security at a casino and sparks forbidden desire with co-worker Henry (Diego Calva), which is consummated away from prying eyes. Back in their hotel room, Julius and Henry fantasise about using the same underhand tactics as card sharps to line their pockets.

Meanwhile, Muriel neglects to tell Lee about her run of good fortune at the horse-racing track, where she places bets based on the insider tips she overhears while working as a diner waitress. A particularly good day of accumulator bets returns life-changing winnings and Muriel quits while she is ahead. “If you think too much about luck, it starts to own you,” she warns another punter (Kat Cunning). There is a spark of mutual attraction between the women and Muriel contemplates an affair.

On Swift Horses canters leisurely through the pages of Pufahl’s book, riding high on compelling performances from the central trio. The final act’s quiet devastation feels somehow anticlimactic after the sustained build-up of dramatic tension, and the angst of one romantic pairing resolves with a convenient serendipity that only seems to exist on a big screen. Elordi cements his status as a modern-day matinee idol while Edgar-Jones and Poulter unpick their on-screen marriage at the seams and let messy raw emotions tumble out.