The Choice to Believe

A Review of Heretic

Arthur Conan Doyle’s 1887 novel, A Study in Scarlet, pits the ultimate beacon of fin-de-siecle rationality, the detective Sherlock Holmes, against the ultimate den of superstition and fantastic gothic horror, untouchable by the light of intellect: the strange, reclusive Mormons of Utah. Less than a decade later, George Melies released The House of the Devil (1896), considered the first-ever horror film, which founded its horror upon the flamboyant image of the Devil walking among us—the same fear famously portrayed in 1973’s The Exorcist. 

Religion is an old staple of the horror-film oeuvre, whether it handles Catholicism, Evangelical Christianity, Old Order Amish and Mennonite philosophy, Vodou, Taoism, or any number of folk religious practices—and now, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. On hearing the premise for Heretic (2024), however, I did find myself surprised. With the film’s minimal cast, tightly contained set, and captor-captive power dynamic reminiscent of the Saw franchise, the protagonists’ identities as missionaries almost seemed like an excuse to get young “final girl” into the domain of the killer.¹ Would this film hit us with a twist possession reveal, or would it allow the Mormon conceit to fall by the wayside entirely?

As it turns out, neither proved to be the case. In a landscape of religious horror film that overwhelmingly requires audiences to suspend their disbelief at the door—whether that disbelief is in the truth or untruth of the religion in question—Heretic takes a unique path by placing the simple, declarative dichotomy of belief and disbelief at the literal and metaphorical center of the film and asks us to consider what lies outside of it.

Outside of the film’s concept, I found myself thoroughly impressed by its execution. Although the two missionaries, Sister Barnes played by Sophie Thatcher and Sister Paxton played by Chloe East, are indeed portrayed as young and naive, this did not read as a commentary on their intrinsic state as Mormons but rather as a function of their role in the film: As “final girl”-type protagonists, their journey is one from naivete to maturity, seizing control of their situation and coming into their own as adults. Both Thatcher and East were raised as members of the Church, and their acting is not only highly articulate but also unexpectedly accurate to the subtleties of missionary life. Meanwhile, Hugh Grant’s widely and rightfully praised performance works in tandem with the brilliantly designed and photographed set—as active a force in the film’s dynamics of helplessness and control as the sets of Rear Window (1954) or Wait Until Dark (1967)—to maintain the tension and the palpable sense of danger until the film’s very end. Simply in terms of execution, Heretic is a resounding success of a film.

Heretic finds itself situated in a fairly saturated genre with extremely well-developed story beats, after six soon to be seven Exorcist films, eight films in The Conjuring’s cinematic universe, and a whopping fifty-four Amityville haunting films. The genre formula, roughly, goes: strange things happen—religious authority is called—religious authority is not powerful enough—corn syrup blood and CGI ghoulies and an ultimate victory through the power of love, or something. But Heretic blazes its own path. 

Most horror films that deal with religious themes are flatly unambiguous about the truth of the relevant religion within the text of the film—a practice that, while certainly narratively efficient, neatly sidesteps any actual engagement with the religion they have co-opted. Some confirm the presence of Catholic divinity and others confirm its absence in simple, undemanding terms: CGI demons exist, and the power of Christ either can or cannot compel them. In either case, the objective existence of God is clearly confined to the kayfabe of the film.² 

And indeed, the majority of religious horror films that sensationalize the mysticism of real-world religions do their best to separate their fictionalized religion from its real-world analogue. Some films emphasize that their demon-hunting duo are lay exorcists who have a rocky relationship with the Catholic church; others brazenly invent fictional Catholic canon; some emphasize that their characters are atheists who would never have given religion credence if not for their son floating in midair with pitch-black eyes. These techniques allow supernatural religious horror films to remove the burden of faith entirely, turning religion into a simple fiction that rebuffs any intellectual wrestling. It hardly matters if you feel unwelcome on the pew of your local chapel or if reading the scriptures no longer brings you the fulfillment it did when you were a child, when the very real Satan is right there. When the force you combat is nothing but the divine, you neither need nor have time to deal with the church and its practices. By scooping out the mysticism from the religion they claim to discuss, these films firmly exclude and even mock the genuine experiences and struggles of members of that faith, presenting a fantastical in-film presence of God that all but confirms their belief in His absence outside of it.

Not so with Heretic. 

In a major departure from other religious-themed horror films, this film switches gears from supernatural to psychological horror, forgoing corn syrup ichor and CGI divine wrath in favor of needle-sharp suspense built on a rock-solid bed of well-researched realism. Its horror is buttressed by its depth of specific engagement with Mormonism, as both a belief system and an institution, as well as its focus on the real concept of belief in the absence of surety. The glib and dangerous Mr. Reed incessantly raises forceful, carefully targeted questions of faith and doubt and demands an answer from the two sisters. Is the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints true within the narrative of this film? Not only does this film refuse to provide an answer, it demands that we and the characters provide one ourselves. This dichotomy between belief and disbelief is central to the film, both literally and metaphorically. In the heart of the film’s beautiful, vividly realized set is a faux chapel with identical parallel doors that Mr. Reed labels “belief” and “disbelief.” Although the house and host both appear warm and grandfatherly, the control they exert on the protagonists is absolute, and they are told that in order to leave they must choose a door, and choose correctly.

Of course, to those with experience wrestling the angel, this black-and-white dichotomy between belief and disbelief may feel a bit reductive—a child’s entry to the fears and struggles of faith unbecoming of a film that is otherwise so mature in its storytelling. In fact, I found myself checking out a bit when Mr. Reed gave a lengthy lecture supposedly invalidating Abrahamic religions based on their syncretism with one another. How many times have I heard this neo-Campbellian spiel that distorts Asian religions from the comfort of an armchair, reducing ancient systems of belief to the level of twentieth-century entertainment franchises? I worried, could this film really have bait-and-switched me into watching a poorly lit combat with the Ur-Mythos? A Hollywood remake of something dreamed up by Karl Jung?

Perhaps I have been burned by the likes of The Evil Dead (1981) once too many. I genuinely did not expect the characters to push back against this “scholarly” understanding of the truth of God, nor did I expect the story to support them. But push back they do. As the junior companion, Sister Paxton seeks to play along with the standard religious horror structure of suspending questions of belief for ninety minutes and playing along with the narrative of religion presented by the villain for her own safety; immediately, though, her senior companion stops her. “Every time he says something you don’t agree with, challenge him,” she instructs Paxton. “We aren’t physical threats, but we can be intellectual threats.” 

With these words, the locus of power in the film shifts. No longer are the heroes’ own beliefs and intellects irrelevant to the arbitrary overwhelming force of some supernatural manifestation. It is their own choice to believe, disbelieve, reinterpret, or disregard—and what matters most is the choices they make.

Once Sister Barnes and Sister Paxton take back the choice to believe, the dichotomy of belief or disbelief as an objective declarative necessity becomes thinner and thinner throughout the film. Indeed, Mr. Reed’s efforts to force an objective declaration function as the inimical force of the film; religion is control, he asserts, and to engage with religion, which is to declare belief, is to consent to control. But as Sister Barnes rejected Mr. Reed’s “Joseph Campbell vs. Joseph Smith” sermon as reductive, so does the film reject this presentation of religion as well. To reduce human nature and religion to the vertical lines of connection encompassed in the dichotomy of “I believe” and “I do not believe” is reductive—deliberately and violently so.

What lies outside of the vertical line of this dichotomy? As portrayed in this film, it is the horizontal line of connection between one’s peers. If the vertical line is one of authority—the authority of God, of clergy, of age, of maleness—and an individual’s belief or disbelief in that authority’s power, then the horizontal line is one of love, care, empathy, and selflessness, and the individual’s willingness or unwillingness to extend it. Mr. Reed and his perspective on religion would have the characters and audience believe that the only way to engage with religion is to see a demon in your home or confront the utter absence of God. But the absolute and reductive nature of this premise proves to be a distraction, attempting to isolate the protagonists from one another, alienate them from their own minds, and remove their ability to meaningfully engage in the work of community and membership.

Although the protagonist’s love for and connection with their peers on Earth often functions as a lynchpin moment in a religious horror hero’s fight against the supernatural (the mother in The Conjuring (2013) remembering her love for her children as she fights off the demon possessing her, for instance), it is rarely so salient or effectual as in Heretic. It is not the power of Christ that swoops in at the last minute to compel the evil; rather, it is the characters’ willingness to form connections with one another, Mr. Reed’s other victims, and even the weak, human Mr. Reed himself. The way out is neither through belief nor disbelief, but through active connection, powerful empathy, and a willingness to do the hard work of understanding where they are and what good they can do there.

As far as being faith-affirming for its Mormon viewers, Heretic is no Saturday’s Warrior. It insists upon tough questions while refusing to give easy answers. But in this, to me, lies its appeal. The film grapples with the elements of religion that can be horrifying to active members—fears of control; the uncertainty of faith, isolation, and shame; and the betrayal of authority figures—while staunchly refusing to soften itself for the comfort of audience members of any faith. With a rare commitment to quality, a razor-keen pursuit of its themes, and an insightful, highly nuanced perspective on religion in general (and Mormonism in particular), Heretic provides an intense experience that not only permits the audience to bring their own belief and disbelief to the table but practically demands it. 

1. A popular trope in horror and especially slasher horror films, in which the sole surviving protagonist is marked by her youth, femininity, and purity, especially relative to her peers; she initially survives through blind luck before experiencing a sudden rush of maturity and strength that allows her to gain control of the situation at the end of the third act.

2. A term originating in professional wrestling referring to the staged, performative dimension of the sport, both understood to be fiction and maintained as “real.”

Lane Welch lives in Vineyard, Utah, and enjoys reading, writing, and acquiring DVDs. Lane has previously been published in The Utah Monthly and Inscape.