National Post (National Edition)
Ouija look at this
Behold: A horror director who actually cares
Mike Flanagan, director of the new film Ouija: Origin of Evil, seems a rather obstinate fellow. We find him here obliged, unenviably, to develop a low-budget period prequel to a littleadmired ghost movie based on a board game by Hasbro. But Flanagan refuses to be trounced by the material. He steels himself, summons his courage and does what filmmakers used to do routinely under the old studio system, which is invigorate a bagatelle with style. He directs this unwanted Ouija picture as though it were a careerdefining opus.
Origin of Evil is set in the suburbs of California in the late 1960s, and Flanagan, enamoured with the films of the era, has put a lot of effort into replicating their look and feel, beginning with an appealingly old-fashioned title card and a retro Universal Pictures logo in place of the contemporary design. The film was shot digitally, but Flanagan’s mocked-up phoney cue marks — those right hand-corner “cigarette burns” that instructed projectionists when to change reels in the analog age — and simulated imperfect cuts are fabulous movie-buff touches. The Ouija board itself, at which his camera can’t help but gaze, 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 the kind so impeccably manicured. It’s as if The Shining were transplanted to the Grand Budapest Hotel.
Oh, yes, and there’s a story, too, though I must confess that, 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, and there are her two daughters, nine year old Doris (Lulu Wilson) and high school sophomore Paulina (Annalise Basso), who pitch in by spooking Mummy’s more dubious marks. There is the local Catholic priest, Father Tom (Henry Thomas), who in the eternal tradition of horror-movie priests must be burdened with private remorse, demon-wary faith and reams of third-act exposition. There is this trio’s long-beloved family home, which is thoroughly and complicatedly haunted. And there is of course the Ouija board, which I suppose must be haunted too, because why else would the movie bear that title. Anyway, little Doris finds herself possessed by a malevolent spirit, which if nothing else proves at least a windfall boon to business. Then Doris starts throwing tantrums and writing very long letters in Polish. Mum and sis are alarmed. Father Tom is called in. Et cetera, et cetera.
It’s all quite silly. And yet Flanagan mostly sells it. His cast, for one thing, do Herculean work with the inane, managing to discuss the vicissitudes of paranormal activity with not only a straight face but honest-togoodness gravitas. Henry Thomas, best-remembered to this day as Elliot in E.T., proves especially capable with ghost lore: his inevitable five-minute expository monologue is delivered with engrossing verve. Meanwhile Lulu Wilson forgoes the expected child-actor horror-victim clichés and instead devises a demonkiddie performance style all her own; her speech to the luckless boyfriend in the middle of the film, in which she describes in unsparing detail what it feels like it be strangled to death, 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 — never more than when the latter declares that splitting up, when demons are on the prowl, seems like “a really stupid idea,” which provoked theatre-wide applause when I saw it.
The point is that these are interesting, thoughtful performances — a rare quality in a low-budget horror sequel, which even the least distinguished actor is likely to regard as a mere phoneit-in payday. I think we can safely credit Flanagan for the motivation to try. He directs the hell out this, bringing panache to bear on the most ordinary moments: everywhere you look here there’s a winding long take, or a sudden flourish with the camera, or a faux split-dioptre shot that’s almost worthy of Brian De Palma. But for all his directorial élan, Flanagan never directs around the material, but rather lets his talent serve it. Flanagan does indeed dazzle and rouse and win the skeptical over. He also takes the movie seriously. That’s how obstinate this guy is. ΩΩΩ
THE OUIJA BOARD ITSELF ... IS SAVOURED AS ART OBJECT.