When a Horror Movie Needs an Exorcism Itself
Some movies scare you because of their monsters. Others scare you because of how many clichés they can fit into two hours. Deliver Us from Evil, directed by Scott Derrickson and produced by Jerry Bruckheimer (which should’ve been the first red flag), falls firmly into the latter camp.
This is a film so committed to every supernatural cop cliché that it feels like a drinking game disguised as a sermon. Possessed Marines? Check. Growling Latin incantations? Double check. Brooding cop with a tragic past and a flashlight fetish? You bet your holy water.
It’s “based on actual accounts,” according to the marketing—a claim that’s about as believable as a Ouija board that says “Trust me.”
The Plot: A Demon Walks Into a Cop Drama
Eric Bana plays Ralph Sarchie, a tough Bronx cop who’s lost his faith but gained a bad attitude. He’s a man haunted by his past, his job, and apparently, bad lighting. You know he’s gritty because he frowns constantly and calls his partner “bro.”
When strange crimes start popping up around the Bronx—a Marine beating his wife, a woman tossing her baby into a lion pit, and some guys painting Latin graffiti that even Google Translate would give up on—Sarchie begins to suspect that evil is literally afoot.
But not just any evil. No, this is capital-E Evil, the kind that listens to The Doors and hangs out in basements. Apparently, a group of Marines brought a demonic force home from Iraq, which is somehow less far-fetched than the idea that Eric Bana is a Bronx cop.
Sarchie teams up with a chain-smoking priest named Mendoza (Édgar Ramírez), whose hobbies include performing exorcisms and giving intense side-eye. Together, they must solve crimes, save souls, and look serious while whispering “In nomine Patris” into the camera.
Eric Bana: The Cop Who Prays Too Little
Eric Bana is a talented actor, but here he’s trapped in a role so stock it might as well come with its own badge number. His Sarchie is a man without faith, which means we’re treated to endless scenes of him glaring at crucifixes like they owe him money.
He’s a walking collection of cop movie tropes: he has a loving wife (Olivia Munn, wasted in a role so thankless it could have been played by a voicemail), a cute kid (Lulu Wilson, who spends most of the film looking scared of her father’s accent), and a deadpan partner (Joel McHale, playing it like he’s in an R-rated episode of Community).
Bana growls, sweats, and broods through a film that mistakes volume for emotion. His idea of acting possessed is to grimace slightly harder than usual.
The Demon, the Priest, and the Very Long Runtime
Standing opposite Bana’s divine confusion is Édgar Ramírez’s Mendoza, a Jesuit priest with the fashion sense of a GQ exorcist. He’s the cool priest—you can tell because he has stubble and drinks whiskey. He’s like if Father Karras from The Exorcist started a podcast.
Mendoza’s big lesson for Sarchie is that true evil isn’t just in criminals—it’s in the heart of man. Which is deep, until you realize you’ve heard it in every horror film since The Exorcist came out in 1973.
The exorcism scene that caps the film should be terrifying. Instead, it plays like a spiritual arm-wrestling contest between two actors trying not to laugh while shouting Latin phrases over EDM sound effects.
The demon-possessed Marine (Sean Harris, doing his best “meth-head Rasputin” impression) growls, spits, and does the full Linda Blair routine while the room flickers like a haunted rave. You can almost hear the director offscreen yelling, “More foam! More drool! We’re going for awards, people!”
The Horror: By the Numbers
Let’s talk scares—or rather, the lack thereof.
Every “boo” moment is telegraphed with the subtlety of a marching band. A flashlight flickers? Cue the violin sting. A door creaks open? Prepare for CGI shadows. A child’s toy moves on its own? Must be Tuesday.
The film mistakes darkness for atmosphere. Nearly every scene is set in the dark, because apparently light bulbs are scarier than demons. Watching this movie feels like being trapped inside a malfunctioning power grid for two hours.
And then there’s the soundtrack. The Doors’ “Break on Through (To the Other Side)” plays every time something supernatural happens. Because nothing says “eternal evil” like a 1967 rock song that’s been on every Vietnam soundtrack since Forrest Gump.
The Script: Exorcise This, Please
Scott Derrickson co-wrote the screenplay, and you can almost feel him fighting against the studio’s mandate for “gritty realism” and “mass appeal.” The result is a movie torn between a psychological horror and a CSI: Vatican spinoff.
The dialogue is a holy trinity of clichés, exposition, and forced humor. Joel McHale’s wisecracks land like communion wafers dropped in mud. Olivia Munn gets about four lines, all of which are variations on “Ralph, are you okay?”—the horror movie equivalent of “How’s the weather?”
The film’s religious themes try to be profound but come off like the Cliff Notes version of The Exorcist. We’re told repeatedly that faith is the key, evil is real, and only by confronting your inner darkness can you be free. Which would be moving if the film didn’t also include a demonic owl graffiti subplot.
The Visuals: Shadows, Sweat, and More Shadows
Cinematographer Scott Kevan deserves credit for trying. He shoots the Bronx like it’s the ninth circle of hell, complete with wet concrete, flickering lights, and perpetual rain. Unfortunately, it’s hard to appreciate good cinematography when you can’t see half the movie.
Every scene is drenched in shadow. The cops don’t use flashlights—they use existential dread. Even the daytime scenes look like they were shot during a solar eclipse.
And yet, despite the gloom, there’s no sense of danger. The film’s demons look like they escaped from a Nine Inch Nails music video, all black goo and whispery voices.
The Ending: Deliver Us from Sequels
After two hours of demon growling, priestly pontificating, and flashlight choreography, Sarchie finally gets his redemption arc. He confesses to killing a child predator years ago—because apparently, all cops in horror films have to have murdered someone in “a moment of darkness.”
Mendoza absolves him, they exorcise the demon, and everyone goes home for a baptism. It’s meant to be uplifting, but it plays like the movie is apologizing for wasting your time.
A final title card tells us Sarchie retired from the force to help fight demons full-time, which I guess is supposed to sound heroic. Personally, I’d rather he fight whoever green-lit the script.
The Verdict: Possessed by Mediocrity
Deliver Us from Evil wants to be Seven meets The Exorcist—a gritty cop drama infused with supernatural dread. Instead, it’s like watching a priest and a detective argue over whose flashlight is brighter.
It’s not a total disaster—Derrickson knows how to stage creepy moments, and Sean Harris gives the demon some bite—but the film drowns in its own self-importance. It’s too serious to be fun, too silly to be profound, and too long to justify either.
Eric Bana tries his best, but even he can’t save a movie that confuses moodiness with meaning.
So if you’re looking for a horror film that’s genuinely frightening, skip this sermon. But if you enjoy watching a man shout Latin at a sweaty Marine while Jim Morrison plays in the background—congratulations, this is your gospel.
Final Judgment:
⭐½ out of 5.
A grim, preachy exorcism thriller that could use one itself. Call the priest—this movie’s soul is long gone.
