# Documentary on 'Exorcist II' Reveals the Chaos Behind One of Cinema's Most Notorious Sequels
David Kittredge's documentary "Boorman and the Devil" transforms the catastrophic production of "Exorcist II: The Heretic" into something far more valuable than a simple cautionary tale. What emerges is a portrait of artistic ambition colliding with studio interference, star power clashing with creative vision, and the impossible task of following one of horror's greatest achievements.
Director John Boorman inherited a poisoned chalice when he took on the 1977 sequel to William Friedkin's legendary 1973 original. The original "Exorcist" had defined modern horror cinema and won four Academy Awards. Boorman, fresh from the critical and commercial success of "Deliverance" and "Zardoz," arrived with his own baroque sensibility and refusal to simply repeat the first film's formula.
Kittredge's documentary captures the fundamental incompatibility between Boorman's visionary approach and what audiences and Warner Bros. wanted. The director attempted to push the franchise into surreal, philosophical territory. He envisioned elaborate dream sequences, symbolic religious imagery, and a more introspective examination of faith and possession. The studio wanted more of what worked before: jump scares, visceral horror, and a straightforward narrative.
The cast and crew interviews illuminate how this collision cascaded into disaster. Linda Blair, who reprised her role as Regan MacNeil, found herself trapped between competing visions. The script underwent constant rewrites. The production design became increasingly ornate and bizarre. By the time "Exorcist II" reached theaters, it had become something between Boorman's experimental art film and the studio's commercial product, satisfying neither constituency.
The resulting film became infamous. Critics savaged it. Audiences rejected it. For decades, "Exorcist II: The Heretic" occupied an unenviable position in cinema history: the punchline to a joke about terrible sequels. Yet Kittredge's documentary recontextualizes this failure not as evidence of Boorman's incompetence but as the inevitable result of two incompatible visions locked in combat.
What makes "Boorman and the Devil" work as a film lies in Kittredge's refusal to mock his subject. Rather than constructing another "so bad it's interesting" narrative, he treats the production with the seriousness it deserves. Boorman emerges not as a hack but as an artist whose boldness and refusal to compromise his vision created something genuinely weird and, in retrospect, far more interesting than a competent retread of the original.
The documentary arrives at a moment when film culture has become increasingly comfortable reassessing critical failures. The internet has spawned entire communities dedicated to defending unloved films. Audiences have grown more sophisticated about production history and the gap between artistic intention and commercial outcome. "Boorman and the Devil" speaks to this moment while offering a substantive chronicle of how Hollywood's studio system once swallowed visionary filmmakers whole.
IndieWire's assessment that this merits a wide release speaks to the documentary's broader appeal beyond cinephiles. It functions as both a technical masterclass in how productions derail and a character study of artistic commitment in the face of industry resistance. For anyone interested in how movies actually get made, the compromises they demand, and the rare individuals who refuse to make them, Kittredge's work delivers something genuinely valuable.