The Ritual

There are times when cinema asks us to suspend our disbelief and surrender to its charm, and then there are times when a film simply tests our patience. David Midell's The Ritual unfortunately falls into the latter category. This film has all the ingredients to be at least memorable, if not particularly innovative: a supposedly true story inspired by one of the most famous cases of possession in the United States, a cast featuring the legendary Al Pacino, the ever-charismatic Dan Stevens, and newcomer Abigail Cowen, as well as a marketing campaign that emphasizes the authenticity of the subject matter. Yet what unfolds on screen is less an exploration of faith, evil, and human endurance than a lethargic procession of clichés performed without conviction. Watching The Ritual feels like being dragged through an endless loop of predictable scares, timid debates about faith, and drawn-out exorcism sequences that blur together into a monotonous fog. The result is a joyless and uninspired film.

The historical context is undeniably fascinating: the film is inspired by the 1928 exorcism of Emma Schmidt, often cited as one of the most documented cases of possession in American history. The case, which lasted several weeks and involved priests, nuns, and townspeople, is a story that lends itself well to film because of its mix of religious fervor, medical controversy, and human suffering. Instead of building on this richness, director David Midell reduces it to a simplistic formula. Dan Stevens plays Father Joseph Steiger, a young priest haunted by his brother's death and plagued by doubt, while Al Pacino takes on the role of Father Theophilus Riesinger, a seasoned exorcist with decades of experience. On paper, this should have made for an intriguing generational conflict: the weathered old man guiding the hesitant novice through a crisis of faith. In reality, their relationship collapses under the weight of caricature. Dan Stevens spends the entire film alternating between skeptical and admiring glances, his lines peppered with generic phrases about losing faith and the need for proof, while Al Pacino, an actor whose screen presence is usually electrifying, seems lost. His German accent is disturbingly inconsistent, oscillating between a guttural grunt and an unconvincing parody, making it impossible to take his performance seriously. At times, his delivery of the lines borders on self-sabotage, as if he doesn't believe in the text he's being asked to recite.

Abigail Cowen's reinterpretation of Emma Schmidt is one of the film's biggest mistakes. The real Schmidt was a woman in her forties whose prolonged suffering and late possession gave her story a gravity that set it apart from so many other tales featuring teenage victims. By transforming her into an attractive young woman in her twenties, the film succumbs to the worst kind of Hollywood simplification, erasing the uniqueness of the historical character in favor of a familiar archetype. Abigail Cowen throws herself into the physicality of the role with admirable commitment—she screams, contorts herself, vomits, and struggles in every way imaginable—but she is denied any dimension as a character. Emma is never allowed to be a person with thoughts, memories, or fears; she is just a body, a vessel for the demon's antics. This choice not only flattens the film considerably, but also robs it of the historical texture that could have set it apart. Every scene with Emma feels like déjà vu, a pale echo of the countless possession films that came before it, from the famous The Exorcist to its countless imitators. By reducing Schmidt to a mere prop, the film robs its story of any depth.

If the characters fail to connect with the audience, the direction itself buries any hope of atmosphere. Adam Biddle's cinematography is dominated by a very shaky camera, sudden zooms, and a pseudo-documentary style that is never justified. The intention may have been to give the film a sense of immediacy or realism, but the result is amateurish and distracting. Instead of immersing the viewer in 1928 Iowa, the camera constantly reminds us that we are watching a film that can't find its tone. The excessive use of handheld close-ups drains the scenes of any grandeur, reducing even potentially powerful moments to clumsy, claustrophobic exercises in visual noise. There are sequences where the camera lingers far too long on Dan Stevens' face, zooming in on his empty gaze in a way that becomes unintentionally comical. By the middle of the film, all the exorcisms look the same: dimly lit, claustrophobic, and impossible to tell apart. This repetition robs the narrative of its rhythm, making it feel like the audience is trapped in its own ritual, doomed to watch the same movements repeat over and over again, without intensification or variation.

The supporting cast, who could have brought some relief to this monotony, are equally penalized by the film's weaknesses. Ashley Greene, who plays Sister Rose, endures some of the film's most violent and disturbing moments, including a sequence where she is nearly scalped by the demon's fury. In a better-made film, this could have been a shocking and visceral moment, but here it is so clumsy and poorly edited that it is little more than a box to tick on the list of essential elements of an exorcism film. Patricia Heaton, meanwhile, as the mother superior, brings a touch of gravitas and authority to her limited role, but she too is wasted, reduced mainly to stern warnings and reactions. Perhaps most telling is that the suffering of the nuns, who have historically paid an immense physical and emotional price during such exorcisms, is depicted with no real narrative significance. Their pain becomes mere spectacle, as if director David Midell has no interest in exploring the human cost of such rituals beyond their value as shocking material.

 The imbalance between the priests' endless debates about doubt and the sidelining of the women's experiences seems not only dramatically hollow, but also thematically inappropriate. The anecdotes drawn from our experience as viewers only reinforce the fundamentally flawed nature of this project. Al Pacino's fluctuating accent, which shifted from broken German to something bordering on caricature, became a form of unintentional comedy. Dan Stevens, wide-eyed and incredulous, looked more like an actor bewildered by the absurdity of the production than a man grappling with questions of faith. At one point, when Emma's character, played by Abigail Cowen, spits out a black substance, the camera zooms in so exaggeratedly that the scene looks more like a mockumentary than a horror film. Instead of being disturbed, it reminds us of parody sketches that mock exorcism films. The worst crime a horror film can commit is not being ridiculous or kitsch—at least that can be entertaining—but being boring, and The Ritual commits this sin with gusto. Halfway through, you realize you've already seen everything the film has to offer, and everything that follows is just more of the same.

The climax, which should have been the film's high point, is just a flat echo of everything that came before. The final exorcism, which drags on for endless minutes of chanting, contortions, and screaming, fails to create any emotion or bring any narrative closure. When it finally ends, we feel neither catharsis nor terror, but rather relief that the ordeal is over. The end credits, which attempt to remind us that this is the most documented exorcism in American history, fall flat. After nearly one hour and forty minutes of boredom, the reminder of the story's real origins feels like a desperate attempt to give weight to a project that never deserved it. The tragedy is that this historical case is truly fascinating; in the right hands, it could have provided a frightening and thought-provoking analysis of the intersection between faith, mental illness, and mass hysteria. But David Midell shows no interest in nuance, preferring to recycle tired images and structure the film like a best-of compilation of exorcism clichés.

The Ritual is not just a bad movie, it's a missed opportunity. While William Friedkin's The Exorcist remains terrifying decades later thanks to its atmosphere, emotional honesty, and audacity, David Midell's work feels like an imitation drained of all substance. Even the presence of Al Pacino, whose legacy on screen should have been a pillar of gravity, fails to save it from self-parody. Dan Stevens' sincerity and Abigail Cowen's physical commitment are completely swallowed up by the film's lack of vision. What remains is a hollow, repetitive, and lifeless retelling of a story that deserved better. Instead of reviving interest in the exorcism subgenre, The Ritual sounds like its death rattle: a ritual performed without conviction, a mechanical gesture until its last breath. Unable to terrify, interest, or even entertain. The film reminds us that sometimes-true horror lies not in demons, but in uninspired cinema like this film, which fails on every level.

The Ritual
Directed by David Midell
Written by Enrico Natale, David Midell
Produced by Enrico Natale, Ross Marks, Andrew Stevens, Mitchell Welch
Starring Al Pacino, Dan Stevens, Ashley Greene, Abigail Cowen, María Camila Giraldo, Meadow Williams, Patrick Fabian, Patricia Heaton
Cinematography: Adam Biddle
Edited by Enrico Natale
Music by Jason Lazarus, Joseph Trapanese
Production companies: Cinemachine Shop, Andrew Stevens Entertainment
Distributed by XYZ Films (United States), KMBO (France)
Release dates: June 6, 2025 (United States), August 20, 2025 (France)
Running time: 98 minutes

Seen on June 25, 2025 (VOD)

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