From the eerie Latin chants of “The Exorcist” in 1973 to the modern demonic duels of films like “The Pope’s Exorcist” or “The Nun II,” Hollywood has long been obsessed with the battle between good and evil. But in recent years, there has been a notable resurgence of exorcism-themed films—and not just as mindless horror tropes. Something deeper, more cultural, is afoot. What does America’s growing appetite for stories of possession and spiritual warfare reveal about the nation’s collective psyche?
We live in an era marked by uncertainty, social fragmentation, political tribalism, and a rising tide of anxiety. From mass shootings to economic precarity to the dizzying pace of technological disruption, many Americans feel like the world is spinning out of control. And when people feel powerless, they often turn to the metaphysical. Exorcism films offer not only a terrifying spectacle but also a narrative framework that suggests evil can be named, confronted, and defeated.
The surge in exorcism movies appears closely linked to a broader cultural unease. In an age of distrust in institutions—governments, schools, churches—the idea that a lone priest (or a small band of believers) can hold back the demonic tide feels oddly comforting. It’s a simplification, a black-and-white solution to a gray world. In these films, evil has a face, a name, and often speaks in a snarling, ancient tongue. It is not systemic or bureaucratic—it is immediate and terrifying, but also beatable.
A 2023 Pew Research Center survey found that belief in the literal existence of the Devil has risen among young Americans, especially among those disaffected from organized religion. That’s not a contradiction; it’s a reflection of our postmodern religious landscape. You can reject the institutional church while still believing in evil. In fact, belief in malevolent supernatural forces may even serve as a substitute for the eroded moral order once defined by traditional faith.
Streaming platforms have also capitalized on this phenomenon. With production costs relatively low and a dedicated horror fanbase, exorcism stories have found a natural home in binge-friendly streaming ecosystems. Shows like Netflix’s “The Haunting of Hill House” or “Midnight Mass,” while not exorcism tales per se, deal in similar themes of spiritual darkness, faith under siege, and unseen forces just beyond the veil.
There’s also an unmistakable political undercurrent to all this. Cultural conservatives may see exorcism films as validating a worldview where traditional values are under siege by an increasingly chaotic and morally ambiguous society. Progressives, on the other hand, might interpret the genre’s resurgence as an allegory for confronting institutional abuse, generational trauma, or the toxic legacies of dogma.
It’s worth remembering that “The Exorcist” premiered during a similarly chaotic moment—post-Vietnam, post-Watergate, mid-sexual revolution. The film was shocking not just for its visual horror but for its implication that modern medicine, psychiatry, and rationality were powerless in the face of true evil. That anxiety is still with us. Despite technological progress and cultural shifts, many Americans feel spiritually adrift.
Exorcism movies tap into that malaise. They aren’t just horror—they’re spiritual dramas. And they offer, at their core, a kind of hope: that darkness can be faced and, ultimately, overcome.
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Why Are Americans Obsessed with Exorcisms Again?
From suburban theaters to late-night streaming binges, a familiar trope is making a hellish comeback: exorcism films. The formula is instantly recognizable—a possessed body, a reluctant priest, a skeptical doctor, and an escalating series of supernatural events. But the recurrence of this genre, and its current upswing, suggests more than a preference for jump scares. The question isn’t just “why are we scared?” but “why now?”
The exorcism movie boom mirrors something profound in the American cultural mood: a deep-rooted, often inarticulate fear that something has gone deeply wrong. These films—part horror, part theological opera—function like funhouse mirrors, reflecting our disordered selves back at us. In a time when institutions have faltered, national unity is frayed, and trust is scarce, the metaphor of demonic possession lands with disturbing resonance.
This isn’t the 1970s, but the parallels are striking. Then, America was reeling from the Vietnam War, the collapse of political trust post-Watergate, and social upheaval. Now, we have the trauma of a pandemic, political polarization at a boiling point, and a rapidly digitizing society that seems to undermine stable identities. In both cases, possession narratives surged in popularity. Coincidence? Unlikely.
These stories boil complex societal trauma into a single figure: the demon. They turn diffuse anxiety into a confrontable evil. That’s powerful. Films like “The Exorcism of Emily Rose,” “The Pope’s Exorcist,” and even more schlocky entries in the genre, all offer something rare in today’s chaos—a plot with moral clarity. There’s a victim, a villain, and a solution. It’s spiritual engineering for a culture allergic to ambiguity.
The aesthetic of these films also plays into the moment. Cold, sterile hospitals, echoing churches, and flickering lights suggest a world teetering on the edge. Even the priests—traditionally firm and faithful—are often cynical, scarred, or wrestling with doubt. These are not squeaky-clean crusaders; they are broken vessels. And that’s the point. Exorcism movies are about resistance, not perfection.
What’s also fascinating is the way these films thrive outside mainstream religious channels. Many of their biggest fans are not card-carrying Catholics or fundamentalists. They’re spiritually curious, religiously unaffiliated viewers seeking some kind of engagement with moral seriousness. Horror is one of the last genres that still