Democrit

No real horror, no fantasy, no chilling supernatural dread. It's about nothing-zero genre identity. It wobbles between drama, half-baked mysticism, and psychological whatever, but never commits to anything. The whole 'magic' vibe is just some scribbles in a book and the main girl mumbling nonsense. There's no actual evil force-just the screenwriter jerking off over frog doodles and arrows in some crusty old notebook.

This isn't horror-it's just some angsty teen girl going through puberty, ready to dive into rebellion for no reason. A coming-of-age metaphor with zero setup. The conflicts make no sense-totally random, unexplained. The writers didn't even try to make things logical. They just slapped together this 'mysterious beauty' archetype who wanders around pissed off, blaming her dead mom for... what, exactly? Her whole motivation is 'vibes'! No backstory, no tragedy-just 'ancestral calling' or whatever. They didn't even bother explaining how the mom died or who's to blame. Nothing makes sense-not the genre, not the themes, not the script!

Fake folklore, fake mythology-just a boring, meaningless backdrop. The creators clearly know jack about actual myths, fairy tales, or family drama. Nothing connects to any 'queen' or 'bones.' This isn't horror-it's a half-baked drama. Where's the folklore? In some random symbols the girl finds? This is lazy, surface-level nonsense-just slapping spooky imagery onscreen for cheap tension. Nothing gets explained, nothing matters.

And don't get me started on the dad. They villainize him for no reason-he's just a strict religious guy trying to protect his kids. Not abusive, not a fanatic, just... a parent. But the movie acts like he's some monster. They didn't even bother giving him real flaws-just 'oh no, he's too religious!' Weak. The whole conflict is forced, pointless, and stupid.

Yeah, the atmosphere's there, but the movie's empty. All style, no substance. Just another trendy 'folk horror' flick with symbols that lead nowhere.

Feels like the filmmakers had one axe to grind-their own grudge against religion and tradition. Like they're victims of 'oppressive morals' or whatever.

Howard Lovecraft? Now that's ancient horror-dark, poetic, actually beautiful. This movie? Just a bunch of scribbled arrows and frogs.

Oh great, we've arrived-the era of 'prestige cinema,' so trendy and edgy. This isn't filmmaking, it's just misery porn: every character wallows in their own depravity while the audience, like lab rats, is forced to watch this filth without a glimmer of truth. The director? Just another fetishist screaming, 'Everyone's a monster-some just don't know it yet.' Even Dante's hell had pity, but not here. This isn't a movie for viewers-it's for critics who'll drool over this trendy pot of reheated misanthropy.

Real cinema isn't about rolling in the dirt-it's about trying to wash your hands, even if the water's filthy.

This film peddles despair as 'profound' and calls it realism. It's a statement that doesn't need answers-just a diagnosis with no cure. And it's flattery for the 'intellectuals of emptiness': 'You get how awful everything is? Wow, you must be so smart'

This film leaves you torn. It feels like a brilliant first draft - there's substance here, but the filmmakers lacked the courage to fully explore it. Worth watching? Absolutely. Worth raving about? Not quite.

Let's start with the flaws: In an era of flashy jump-scares, this is at least an honest attempt at something meaningful. That alone deserves credit. But damn, that shaky cam! When the camera won't stay still, neither does the story's meaning. There's zero visual poetry here - not a single frame you'd want to pause and admire. The director chokes us with this obnoxious "gritty realism" when what we needed was careful composition.

The characters? Rough sketches. Pacino's priest radiates quiet faith but has no backstory. Dan Stevens' doubter arc lacks crucial turning points. Supporting characters? Just demon-fodder with no personalities. Ashley Greene barely registers as a romantic interest - the filmmakers clearly chickened out of exploring taboo desires.

They're afraid to challenge the audience. Themes of guilt and redemption are hinted at but never developed. The demon? Just some hooded figure cursing in Latin - more annoying than terrifying. The possessed woman? A blank slate. When Pacino calls her "special," we have to take his word for it.

I won't debate whether the supernatural events "really happened" - that's for each viewer to decide.

Here's the thing: I can't fully praise it, but calling it bad would be unfair. There's real substance in its message: "Faith isn't about rituals - it's about refusing to quit. The devil fears indifference more than prayers." The metaphor works - evil here isn't some horned monster, but the darkness we feed inside ourselves. "Sin isn't falling down - it's staying down."

Pacino saves this movie. His world-weary mentor isn't some saint - he's a sinner who kept getting back up. Stevens plays his broken mirror image beautifully. But the script boxes them in.

That one magical scene where Pacino silences the demon by simply ignoring it? That's gold. No shouting Latin, just quiet defiance. He looks right through the monster like it's not even there - now that's fresh.

For all its flaws, this isn't your typical horror schlock. The director respects both the genre and our intelligence. It's a smart, if uneven, psychological thriller - the kind of film that bridges cheap thrills and real art.

What's missing? Philosophical weight. Raw psychology. But there's enough here to admire - especially when so many films don't even try.

This could've been a masterpiece. Instead, it's a compromised vision - a brilliant script sanded down for mass appeal.