Once Upon a Scary Time
Back in 2013, James Wan unleashed The Conjuring, and audiences everywhere swore they’d never sleep with the lights off again. It was hailed as a horror classic, sharp scares, heavy atmosphere, and the Warrens (Vera Farmiga and Patrick Wilson) anchoring it all with human warmth. For many people, it was the kind of movie that made closets and basements feel unsafe.
But not for me. I watched it, I reviewed it, I nodded at the craftsmanship, and then I moved on, un-haunted. For me, The Conjuring has always been the franchise that scared everyone else, never me.
And now, after a decade of sequels, prequels, and spin-offs (Annabelle, The Nun, La Llorona, the horror family tree nobody asked for), we land on The Conjuring: Last Rites. Supposed to be the big finale. Supposed to go out with a bang. Instead, it drifts by like a ghost that has forgotten why it was haunting in the first place.
Same Tricks, Less Magic
The movie employs the usual bag of tricks: creaky doors, sudden loud noises, and a haunted object (this time, it’s a mirror, because apparently all the dolls are in storage). The formula is so familiar you could play horror bingo with it. Quiet build-up, pause, jump scare. Repeat until your popcorn goes stale.
The first Conjuring made this formula work because it was new, tense, and expertly shot. In Last Rites, it feels like the franchise is cosplaying itself. You can see the scares coming from three scenes away. Nothing lingers, nothing unsettles. It’s the cinematic equivalent of microwaving leftovers.
Vera and Patrick Still Show Up
The only thing that still works is Vera Farmiga and Patrick Wilson. These two have carried this franchise for over a decade, and they clearly still care. Their performances have warmth and heart, which is more than I can say about the script. You believe in their love. You believe in their exhaustion. You root for them.
But here’s the issue: this is supposed to be a horror movie. And instead of terrifying us, Last Rites leans on their chemistry like it’s a retirement speech. I don’t want a eulogy for the Warrens. I want demons. I want nightmares. I want something that justifies me turning on the hallway light at 2 a.m.
The Real Horror Is the Franchise Fatigue
What’s scarier than demons? Franchises that don’t know when to stop.
The Conjuring Universe has given us ten movies. Ten!. Somewhere along the way, the sense of danger got replaced with corporate obligation. Last Rites doesn’t feel like a finale. It feels like an echo.
If this really is the last movie, it’s not an exorcism, it’s an overdue retirement.
Stretching to Say Anything at All
And here’s where I admit: I don’t have a lot to say about The Conjuring: Last Rites. That’s how bland it is. Usually, even a bad horror movie gives you something fun to pick apart. This one? It’s so middle-of-the-road, so watered down, that the only thing I felt was relief when the credits rolled.
I wanted to write about how awful it was. I wanted to roast it. But honestly, it’s not even awful in a memorable way. It just feels like nothing. A jump scare without the scare. A haunting without the haunt. A movie that dissolves from your brain faster than cotton candy on your tongue.
Final Thoughts
The Conjuring: Last Rites isn’t frightening. It isn’t bold. It isn’t even interesting enough to be hilariously bad. It’s just tired. And that’s maybe the cruelest fate for a horror series that once felt alive with dread and atmosphere.
So I’ll keep this simple: Warner Bros, please let this be the last one. Let Ed and Lorraine Warren finally rest. Let Vera and Patrick move on to something worthy of their talent. Let James Wan haunt us with something new.
Because if this is what a “final haunting” looks like, then the scariest thing of all would be a sequel.
