Producers: Bob Yari, Joel David Moore, Colleen Camp, Cassian Elwes, Jason Ross Jallet, Max Osswald and Kevin Ulrich   Director: Simon West   Screenplay: Shaina Steinberg   Cast: Rebel Wilson, Anna Camp, Stephen Dorff, Justin Hartley, Anna Chlumsky, Da’Vine Joy Randolph, Sherry Cola, Gigi Zumbado, Sam Huntington, Michael O’Neill, Jeff Chase, Craig Anton, Colleen Camp and Kristian Kordula Distributor: Magenta Light Studios

Grade: D

It’s difficult to convey the sheer incompetence of “Bride Hard,” a purported action comedy in which the action is a mess and the comedy lame.  Culpability for the latter must be assigned to scripter Shaina Steinberg, but responsibility for the former has to be laid at the feet of director Simon West.  As those who remember “Con Air” will know, he’s an old hand at staging action set-pieces, but the skill he once demonstrated appears to have abandoned him.  Rarely have such episodes looked so sloppy on screen; true, cinematographer Alan Caudillo and editors Andrew MacRitchie and Todd E. Miller must share the blame, as well as producers who stint on effects resources.  But ultimately the buck stops with the director.

Nor is West helped by his star Rebel Wilson, who’s Sam, an operative for some shadowy US spy agency.  She plays the part with an attitude daring you (as well as the other characters) not to appreciate how fitting her given name is, as if it were proof of her hilarious outrageousness. As a prologue set in Paris (which a caption helpfully informs us is in France) shows, Sam’s one of those prototypical rule-breaking types, who ignores an order not to go beyond simply observing two nefarious characters to seize the biological weapon one has passed to the other.  As at all such moments, she has a limp quip at hand to irk those amazed or appalled by her audacity.

But the operation is but one purpose behind her visit to the City of Lights.  She’s there for the bachelorette party of her childhood best friend Betsy (Anna Camp), for whom she’s serving as maid of honor.  Unfortunately, her prolonged absence from the festivities gives jealous Virginia (Anna Chlumsky), Betsy’s soon-to-be-sister-in-law, the opportunity to persuade the bride-to-be that Sam’s too unreliable to be the maid of honor, and the other bridesmaids—Betsy’s college roommates, sex-crazed Lydia (Da’Vine Joy Randolph) and pregnant Zoe (Gigi Zumbado)—agree.  Even Betsy’s mother Diane (Colleen Camp), though she’s an old friend of Sam, acquiesces to the suggestion that Sam change places with the scheming Virginia.

Still, though hurt, Sam is persuaded to attend the wedding at the Georgia estate of groom-to-be Ryan’s (Sam Huntington) wealthy family as one of the three lesser bridesmaids.  Her professional skills are called for, though, when a bunch of gun-toting terrorists led by a nasty piece of work named Kurt (Stephen Dorff) take over the estate.  Their purpose: to steal the pile of gold bullion kept in a seemingly impregnable safe, the opening of which requires a lengthy, intricate routine involving precise timing and the rings of individual family members, including the heirloom intended for the bride’s finger in the safekeeping of hunky best man Chris (Justin Hartley).

What follows is a series of action episodes in which Sam acts like MacGyver in a bridal gown, using whatever comes to hand, whether it be knickknacks, hair care tools or parts of the machinery in the family distillery operation, to take on the interlopers.  (One will not be surprised to learn that a ceremonial cannon introduced early on assumes the role of Chekhov’s gun in the closing confrontation.)  Unfortunately, though Wilson (and her presumed stand-ins) are game, all the fight scenes are handled so ineptly that they amount to little more than poor mixtures of comedy and surprisingly nasty violence, staged in blurry, ragged visuals.

Meanwhile Betsy and the rest of the captured guests try to try to deter Kurt, whom the smirking Dorff plays like a preening egomaniac, from doing his worst.  There are a few glimmers of humor here: Randolph plays a randy broad to the hilt, even coming on to the reverend (Kristian Kordula) called on to officiate at the ceremony, and Hartley earns a few chuckles as a handsome doofus who’s far from the slick operator he thinks he is.  But most of the secondary cast look stranded as they dutifully intone the terrible lines the script requires them to say.

The Georgia setting is attractive enough, and Marek Dobrowolski’s production design and Salvador Perez’s costumes are fine.  Ryan Shore’s score tries to rev up the alternately tired and frantic material on screen.

But it’s all wasted effort.  Even the punny title of this laugh-free, chaotically staged misfire is bad.  And unlike the movie it mimics, it will certainly have no sequels.

Producers: Ross Marks, Andrew Stevens, Mitchell Welch and Enrico Natale   Director: David Midell   Screenplay: David Midell and Enrico Natale   Cast: Al Pacino, Dan Stevens, Ashley Greene, Abigail Cowen,  Maria Camila Giraldo, Meadow Williams, Courtney Rae Allen, Enrico Natale, Liann Pattison, Patrick Fabian, Richie Montgomery, Emily Brinks and Patricia Heaton   Distributor: XYZ Films

Grade: D

This exorcism movie is distinguished by the fact that it’s based on an actual incident of purported demonic possession that occurred in 1928, and its major characters are named after the principals in it.  An account of the event based on a memoir by one of the priest officiants was published by Carl Vogl in Germany and translated into English as “Begone, Satan!” in 1935 (the following year Time Magazine published a report on the episode), and director David Midell and his co-writer Enrico Natale have obviously used it in constructing their script.  Of course, they made some alterations in the cause of dramatic urgency (for example, the actual exorcism occurred in three stages between August and December, but it’s compressed into a much shorter span here).

In all other respects, unfortunately, “The Ritual” is thoroughly undistinguished.  Despite the presence of a strong cast, it’s a drab, uninspired affair that can’t compare with the granddaddy of the genre, William Friedkin’s “The Exorcist” (1973).  Although that film (and the 1971 best-seller by William Peter Blatty on which it was based) were inspired by a different “real” exorcism (that of Roland Doe in 1949), some of their details show the influence of Vogl’s account of the earlier episode.  (In return, one discerns strong echoes of “The Exorcist” here.)     

The narrative is, rather curiously, centered on Father Joseph Steiger, the pastor of St. Joseph’s Catholic parish in Earling, Iowa, who, according to this version, was assigned the job of hosting the ritual by his bishop (Patrick Fabian) against his better judgment: he was himself struggling emotionally at the time, his brother Michael having committed suicide only recently, and he was reluctant to welcome the Capuchin friar Theophilus Riesinger (Al Pacino) and the possessed woman Emma Schmidt (Abigail Cowen) to the Franciscan convent next door, where Riesinger was to conduct the ceremony with Steiger’s assistance as well as that of several of the nuns.  In reality Steiger and Riesinger were, the record suggests, acquainted before 1928, and rather than being surprised by the bishop’s assignment, the pastor was instrumental in arranging for the exorcism to be held in Earling.

But “The Ritual” glides over that inconvenient fact, and becomes an account of Father Steiger’s initial discomfort over what he considers the mistreatment of Schmidt, a skeptical attitude transformed gradually by the experience into commitment to see the ceremony through and even take charge of its culminating phase—not unlike what Father Karras does at the close of “The Exorcist,” albeit not to a similar extreme.  Steiger’s inspired, moreover, by reference to his late brother’s name, Michael, in calling on the archangel for assistance.  (Recall Karras’ grief over the recent death of his mother, and how the demon used it against him.)

There are dramatic possibilities in this, but Midell and Natale flub them badly.  “The Ritual” mostly limps along at a pokey pace, hobbled by desultory editing by co-writer/co-producer Natale (who also takes on a small role as a doctor called in by Steiger at a crucial point) and by jerky, hand-held cinematography from Adam Biddle.  The DP isn’t helped by the cramped locations (in Mississippi, not Iowa)—at one point the action’s transferred to a little cellar that’s called a catacomb!—and by effects (levitation, heavy makeup) that are rudimentary at best.  The interior of the church that was employed is very nice in the old style, but otherwise the production design by Julie Toche is basically catch-as-catch-can, and there’s a score (by Jason Lazarus and Joe Trapanese) that leaves no impression whatever.

Pacino offers a surprisingly low-key turn as the avuncular Riesinger, mumbling most of his dialogue in an unidentifiable accent but intoning the lines of the ritual (in English, not Latin, though the latter language is rightly employed in snippets of the masses of the period) with something approaching conviction (and there are lots of them).  Cowen does her best as the possessed woman, spewing out the familiar threats and insults, but Stevens (who reportedly replaced Ben Foster as shooting began) gives a terrible performance, all frantically empty histrionics that are especially risible beside Pacino’s restraint.

The other major performance comes from Ashley Greene, who’s suitably demure as Sister Rose, a dedicated young nun who pays a price for getting too close to the disturbed woman when a piece of her scalp is ripped off; the other sisters (played by Maria Camila Giraldo, Meadow Williams, Liann Pattison and Courtney Rae Allen) are mostly window-dressing, though Patricia Heaton gets some mileage out of the role of the stern Mother Superior, who regrets allowing her convent to be used for such a troublesome purpose but, like Steiger, comes around in the end.  Fabian seems uncomfortable in the episcopal garb he dons for his single scene.

There have been so many exorcism movies since 1973, varying from pure horror to silly spoof, that new ones need to do something radically different to merit more than a passing glance.  “The Ritual” just treads overly familiar territory in a thoroughly pedestrian fashion.  Claiming an imprimatur of authenticity is hardly enough to make it worth watching.