Heavenly father, please protect us from the ridiculous exorcism horror The Deliverance
An exorcism of cartoonish proportions is the focal point of Lee Daniels' completely inept horror movie.
Photo: Netflix
There is a warped logic to Lee Daniels, filmmaker of nose-boppingly obvious melodramas and sordid stupidity, moving into horror. In an exorcism film, reason is often the only thing standing in the way of the haunted family getting some relief. But Daniels’ big, broad tone doesn’t lend itself to his ultra-serious tale of addiction, suffering children, cycles of abuse, and the compelling power of Christ. With every over-the-top line of dialogue and tone-deaf gamble, The Deliverance inches closer to becoming a parody of itself.
This is partially because Daniels seems completely out of his depth working within the genre, and partially because the family drama surrounding the horror is laughably confounding. Perhaps that’s to be expected from Daniels and his two male screenwriters—David Coggeshall (of The Family Plan) and Elijah Bynum (of Magazine Dreams, the Jonathan Majors bodybuilding movie that might never see the light of day)—attempting to tell a ghost story about single Black motherhood.
Ebony (Andra Day) has just moved into a new place with her kids—teenagers Shante (Demi Singleton) and Nate (Caleb McLaughlin), and elementary schooler Andre (Anthony B. Jenkins)—and her white mom Alberta (Glenn Close, following Hillbilly Elegy with another outrageous slice of Netflix camp). Day reunites with Daniels after earning an Oscar nomination for her debut performance in The United States Vs. Billie Holiday, though she’s given an infinitely less inspiring role here. Ebony is a one-note wreck, abusive, boozing, and caustic. She slaps her children around, batters them with curses, and steals their savings for a quick drink.
The Deliverance is an abrasive movie, even when that abrasiveness is so exaggerated as to be a punchline. Glenn Close’s willingness to be a caricature is weaponized, shouting things like “Do it, bitch,” while dressed in an array of bad wigs, low-cut tops, and daisy dukes. The worst Child Protective Services worker imaginable (Mo’Nique) swings by from time to time, keeping loose, hands-off tabs on Ebony’s increasingly brutalized children. Even an exterminator, called in about the house’s smell of decay, doesn’t make it out scot-free, weathering racist remarks after swearing at his clients. This aggressive tone never coalesces into an oppressive atmosphere, nor does it connect its characters’ pain with the supernatural using any kind of metaphor. This is no Babadook. It’s not even deep enough to pass as one of the many copycat horror movies “actually about trauma” that surfaced in the decade since.