At the Prince Charles Cinema in London, a pre-show announcement now includes a plea from Timothée Chalamet: do not laugh, he implores, at moments in older films that were never intended to be comic. The request addresses a genuine phenomenon of repertory cinema, where dated special effects, antiquated language, and shifts in cultural sensibility provoke derisive hooting. Such 'performative laughter' can be devastating, draining the tension from a thriller, the menace from a horror film, and the emotional gravity from a drama.
Few filmmakers have felt this more acutely than John Boorman, whose sequel to The Exorcist, Exorcist II: The Heretic, became one of the most derided films ever made. Boorman, who considered William Friedkin's original film sadistic and exploitative, set out to create something expansive and even hopeful, spending an unprecedented $14m in the process. Audiences expecting terror responded with boredom and ridicule; the film collapsed at the box office, and Boorman's frantic attempts to re-edit it proved futile. A new documentary, Boorman and the Devil, attempts a reassessment, highlighting the film's pioneering Steadicam work and visual ambition, though even sympathetic critics concede it remains a failure.
Boorman, now 93, still speaks of 'the old wound' left by the film's reputation and the sound of mocking laughter. Yet ridicule need not be fatal. The Room, Tommy Wiseau's notoriously inept drama, has achieved cult-classic status precisely because audiences delight in its absurd dialogue and wooden performances. Wiseau has embraced the mockery, appearing at screenings to enthusiastic receptions and converting derision into a profitable career. His example suggests that laughter, even when cruel, can sometimes be repurposed as a form of redemption.