The Conjuring: Last Rites
By now the Ed and Lorraine Warren saga is less a story than a séance table creaking under its own weight. Even setting aside that these films are “inspired” by the Warrens’ casebooks—figures widely accused of being charlatans—The Conjuring: Last Rites still can’t conjure much excitement.
The set-up promises fresh evil but delivers reheated leftovers: crucifixes rattling, shadows shifting, children staring down corridors. Every beat is predictable, and the film seems content with that. Instead of horror, it feels like homework—an obligation to finish what’s long since gone cold.
The problem isn’t polish but imagination. Horror works when the ordinary turns uncanny; here, the uncanny is flattened into cliché. Last Rites plays like a contractual finale, drained of dread, conviction, or purpose. The real rite being performed is the burial of a franchise that forgot how to scare.
The set-up promises fresh evil but delivers reheated leftovers: crucifixes rattling, shadows shifting, children staring down corridors. Every beat is predictable, and the film seems content with that. Instead of horror, it feels like homework—an obligation to finish what’s long since gone cold.
The problem isn’t polish but imagination. Horror works when the ordinary turns uncanny; here, the uncanny is flattened into cliché. Last Rites plays like a contractual finale, drained of dread, conviction, or purpose. The real rite being performed is the burial of a franchise that forgot how to scare.
Mini Review: By now the Warren saga creaks under its own weight. Even if you set aside that it’s “inspired” by casebooks from figures widely accused of being charlatans, Last Rites still can’t conjure excitement. It recycles crucifixes, shadows, and corridor stares, more homework than horror. Horror thrives on the uncanny; here it’s cliché. The only rite performed is the burial of a franchise that forgot how to scare.
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