DIRECTOR BRINGS PANACHE TO PREQUEL
Mike Flanagan, director of Ouija: Origin of Evil, seems a rather obstinate fellow. We find him here obliged, unenviably, to develop a low-budget period prequel to a little-admired ghost movie based on a board game. But Flanagan does what filmmakers used to do under the old studio system, which is invigorate a bagatelle with style. He directs this unwanted Ouija picture as though it were a career-defining opus.
Origin of Evil is set in the suburbs of California in the late 1960s, and Flanagan has put a lot of effort into replicating their look and feel. The Ouija board itself is savoured as art object rather than mere plot-advancing MacGuffin. Even the board’s instruction manual is relished for its typeface. Scarcely are films of this kind so impeccably manicured. It’s as if The Shining were transplanted to the Grand Budapest Hotel.
There’s a story, too, though I must confess, having never seen the original Ouija, some of its particulars may have eluded me. There’s a single mother, Alice (Elizabeth Reaser), who makes a living deluding the bereaved into thinking she can communicate with the dead. Her two daughters, nine-year-old Doris (Lulu Wilson) and high school sophomore Paulina (Annalise Basso), pitch in by spooking Mommy’s more dubious marks.
There is the local Catholic priest, Father Tom (Henry Thomas), who in the eternal tradition of horror-movie priests is burdened with private remorse. There is the feminine trio’s long-beloved family home, which is complicatedly haunted. Little Doris finds herself possessed by a malevolent spirit, which proves a boon to business. Then Doris starts throwing tantrums and writing very long letters in Polish. Mom and sis are alarmed. Father Tom is called in.
It’s all quite silly. And yet Flanagan mostly sells it. His cast, for one thing, does herculean work with the inane, managing to discuss the vicissitudes of paranormal activity with not only straight faces but honest-togoodness gravitas. Henry Thomas, best-remembered as Elliott in E.T., proves especially capable with ghostly lore: His inevitable expository monologue is delivered with engrossing verve.
Meanwhile, Lulu Wilson devises a demon-kiddie performance style all her own; her speech to the luckless boyfriend, in which she describes in unsparing detail what it feels like it be strangled, is somehow wry, outrageous, and terrifying simultaneously.
Reaser and Basso, saddled with more thankless roles, sometimes seem bemused by the proceedings, even halfway self-aware.
The point is that these are interesting, thoughtful performances — a rare quality in a low-budget horror sequel. Flanagan directs the hell out of this, bringing panache to bear on the most ordinary moments: Everywhere you look here there’s a winding long take, or a faux split dioptre that’s almost worthy of Brian De Palma.
He also takes the movie seriously. That’s how obstinate this guy is.