[The following essay contains MAJOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]
The Exorcist III is, first and foremost, about faith.
I don’t mean that the film is a shallow regurgitation of dogma and doctrine. Like Martin Scorsese and Paul Schrader, director William Peter Blatty is not interested in simply preaching the gospel; he instead engages with religion as a rich, complex theme worthy of serious exploration—and his meditation on the subject is consequently far more nuanced and emotionally rewarding that a typical Sunday morning sermon.
The premise of the story is oppressively bleak. Fifteen years after the execution of a sadistic serial killer, an apparent copycat emerges—though the fact that his modus operandi is nearly identical to his predecessor’s, right down to leaving behind certain “signatures” that were never disclosed to the press and public, has troubling implications. The sheer brutality of the ritualistic murders takes a severe psychological toll on the lead detective, Lt. Bill Kinderman; increasingly frustrated by contradictory evidence, a lack of viable suspects, and the incompetence and apathy of his fellow investigators, the otherwise pious man—who has several close friends among the clergy—struggles to reconcile his knowledge of the excruciating torture that the victims endured with the idea of a loving, compassionate, omnipotent deity: “The whole world is a homicide victim, Father. Would a God who is good invent something like that? Plainly speaking, it's a lousy idea.”
Fundamentalists and apologists tend to be dismissive of such arguments, but consider the condition in which the first body is discovered:
Black boy, about 12 years old. The killer drove an ingot into each of his eyes, then cut off his head. In place of his head was the head from a statue of Christ, all done up in blackface, like a minstrel show, you know, the eyes and the mouth painted white. The boy had been crucified on a pair of rowing oars.
Is it any wonder that this child’s suffering should cause our protagonist to doubt the benevolence of “God’s plan?”
The movie’s cynical tone is complemented by its visual style. The predominantly static, almost symmetrical framing creates a sense of claustrophobia—as if the characters are literally fenced in by the moral decay of the world. The minimalistic editing—which favors long, uninterrupted master shots, only occasionally cutting away to tighter coverage and inserts of everyday objects (crucifixes, rosaries, photographs)—reinforces this suffocating naturalism. Even the scenes in which Kinderman examines the gruesomely mutilated corpses are relatively subtle and unspectacular; the camera deliberately obscures the gory details of the violence, observing the unfolding tragedy from a distance—a silent, detached, objective witness.
Fortunately, our hero refuses to succumb to this pervasive atmosphere of dread and despair; the existential horror is but a momentary obstacle on the path towards redemption and enlightenment. Encountering unambiguously demonic forces doesn’t crush his spirit; the paranormal experience merely reaffirms his convictions, strengthening his resolve to defy evil whether it originates in Hell or on Earth.
Because ultimately, there is no distinction—a subtextual call to action echoed by the iconic climactic monologue:
I believe in death. I believe in disease. I believe in injustice and inhumanity, torture and anger and hate. I believe in murder. I believe in pain. I believe in cruelty and infidelity. I believe in slime and stink and every crawling, putrid thing, every possible ugliness and corruption. You son of a bitch, I believe in you!
From Kinderman’s perspective (and Blatty’s, for that matter), the Devil is just another petty criminal—one item on a very long list of vices. Human beings, after all, are perfectly capable of committing abhorrent sins without any infernal interference—a disquieting notion that is significantly more chilling than possession, poltergeists, and eternal damnation.
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