Editorials
Through the Planchette: Examining ‘Ouija: Origin of Evil’ and What Makes a Great Sequel
Horror sequels are a mixed bag. The court of public opinion typically looks down on them as cash grabs – and they often are – but no sequel announcement meets such immediate disdain as those in the horror genre. And yet, we still watch them. The cheap thrill of Killer Smurfs from Hell draws both haters and excited genre junkies alike, and the vicious cycle of sub-par spooks continues. Don’t get me wrong, fast food is cheap and can hit the spot when you’re hangry, but sometimes we’re craving more sustenance than the dollar menu can provide. Perhaps a second course Hannibal Lecter would serve. The second course we’ll be discussing today is none other than 2014’s Ouija: Origin of Evil.
When a Horror Sequel Actually Improves on the Original
Some seek to break the wheel of mediocrity and expand the menu, reinventing or delving deeper into their original creations. One such instance of a transformative second outing, a film I admittedly overlooked due to these assumptions and expectations, is Mike Flanagan’s Ouija: Origin of Evil. As a prequel to 2014’s singularly titled Ouija, a darkly lit slow burn into dust based on the popular sleepover “boardgame” of the same name, it did the impossible: It was a great successor to a bad movie! How could this be? We’ve all been in or around debates regarding sequels that are as good or better than the original, but if the foundation is already rotten, could they possibly craft something better to stand in its place?
The answer was to burn the whole thing down and start from scratch. The Hasbro tie-in made Universal money, so a follow-up was inevitable, but surprisingly one of those ravenous studio suits decided to do something right for a change.
A Brief Taxonomy of Horror Sequels That Actually Work
Before we take a closer look at this modern-day miracle, let’s have some fun and get into sequel taxonomy. One of the key elements of horror is suspense, and a great sequel cannot simply be more of the same. We’ve seen the scares, we know the twists – something has to change. After pondering some genre standouts, I’ve come up with six categories of notable shriekquels.
Bigger Is Better: The Bombastic Horror Sequel
James Cameron couldn’t have said it any other way when he wrote “Alien$” on a whiteboard in a room full of studio executives. Bombastic sequels aren’t always the answer. They can be quite the problem. Yet, when in the capable hands of a filmmaker such as Cameron, explosions, and gunfire can be a good thing. A claustrophobic classic like Alien evolved into a terrifying study on what happens when one horrific creature becomes an entire hive, and a new classic was born. Other dazzling spectacles that upped the ante include 28 Weeks Later, Dawn of the Dead, and Final Destination 2.
Less Is More: Scaling Horror Down Instead of Up
In what is essentially the opposite trajectory of the Alien franchise, 10 Cloverfield Lane is so good it demands its own category. Indirectly related to the mysterious alien invasion hit Cloverfield, it tells an intimate and intense story of a woman attempting to survive her captor in a bunker during a perceived earth-altering event. To transition from apocalyptic creature feature to psychological thriller was a gamble, but it more than paid off.
Tonal Change-Ups That Reinvent Horror Franchises
A unique approach to a sequel (and my favorite) is when filmmakers decide to throw caution to the wind and alter the entire tone of a film. The Bride of Frankenstein experimented with mixing comedy and horror way back in 1935 to great success, and Evil Dead 2 continued that trend fifty-two years later. Introducing us to Bruce Campbell’s comedic talents, this sequel created a farcical remake that would permanently alter the franchise. Bride of Chucky followed suit in 1998, and each has spawned beloved television series that marries dark comedy with horror. The tonal change-up can apply beyond humor, too, as we saw when Rob Zombie’s The Devil’s Rejects went on the lamb and transformed his House of 1000 Corpses into a sadistic road movie.
Generational Horror Sequels and Legacy Characters
A more recent trend, franchises like Halloween and Scream have risen from the dead in 2018 and 2022 respectively. They’ve combined legacy characters with fresh young casts, modern technology, and new blood spills while we get to spend some time with our faves again. These films have their critics, but I love a good comeback. Doctor Sleep, Stephen King’s sequel to The Shining, was also committed to film in 2019. A genuine surprise, it tells the arresting tale of an adult Danny Torrance battling a clan of psychic vampires led by the bewitching Rebecca Ferguson. It sounds silly, but damn, does it work.
Sequel Satire: When Horror Turns the Joke on Itself
The big gun here is Scream 2. It doesn’t alter the slasher formula, but takes the bigger is better approach with thrilling chase scenes and shocking deaths, while simultaneously throwing everything you think you know about horror sequels back at you. It may follow the same format as the original, but its knowing winks to what it means to be a sequel, especially a slasher, holds Scream 2 in a league of its own. The time loop slasher Happy Death Day 2U takes this approach one step further, thrusting protagonist Tree into an alternate dimension where her death loop persists, but the killer and her reality have shifted. It’s strangely familiar, yet entirely distinct, and keeps Tree and the audience guessing.
Expansion Pack Sequels That Deepen Lore and Characters
If run-of-the-mill horror sequels are known for anything, it’s an absolute disregard for plot and character development. Every so often, a sequel arrives that continues the original story in a captivating and insightful way. Insidious II picks up immediately where the first leaves off, weaving a dark tale of a family marked by those beyond the veil that is fascinating to watch. Hellraiser II similarly takes us to Hell and expands on its twisted lore, and Paranormal Activity 3 travels back to the 1980s to reveal a sinister origin story of its own. Finally, we come to Ouija: Origin of Evil, a prequel set in 1967 that forgoes the typical dead teenager body count for a more personal story of a struggling family’s inner demons that just so happens to include some actual specters, too.
Mike Flanagan’s Ouija: Origin of Evil and the Power of Auteur Horror
When Ouija: Origin of Evil was released in 2014, Mike Flanagan wasn’t the household name he is today. He had some smaller, well-loved films like Hush and Oculus under his belt, but this marked his first excursion into larger studio fare. After having read some interviews with him surrounding the film’s release, it’s clear he was hesitant to accept the job, as he most likely groaned at the thought of a sequel to Ouija just as many of us did. It’s unclear, however, why Universal decided to take the success of the original and craft something of quality as a follow-up. It’s easy money, but perhaps one of the producers felt burned after checking out some Letterboxd reviews.
Anyone familiar with his work knows Flanagan’s specialty is that of tragic family portraits met with the supernatural, so aside from the necessary inclusions of an ouija board and some light ties to the original, he was able to write and direct a true Mike Flanagan feature. It invites us into the world of struggling faux medium Alice Zander (Elizabeth Reaser) following the death of her husband. She spends her days with her two daughters, Lina (Annalise Basso) and Doris (Lulu Wilson), scamming nice folks out of their money through elaborate seances and spiritual readings. To spice things up, Alice introduces a Ouija board to the mix. Young Doris takes an interest while attempting to contact her late father, and something otherworldly takes hold of her.
How Ouija: Origin of Evil Fixes Everything the Original Got Wrong
The differences between the prequel and the original are immediate. The 2014 film is a bare-bones mystery involving a teen’s supposed suicide that is – you guessed it – actually the work of a spirit she contacted via her Ouija board. It is dark and lifeless, and the plot primarily involves everyone being confused until Lin Shaye shows up two-thirds in and provides some much-needed exposition. Characters are unceremoniously killed without anyone batting an eye, and the climax concludes just as you’d expect from an early 2010s supernatural mystery. Origin has character. The attention to detail in its 1960s setting is immersive, down to the old-school Universal logo showing up at the film’s opening and digital cue marks dispersed throughout to give it that authentic feel.
Why Ouija: Origin of Evil Delivers Genuine Scares
And the scares? Plentiful! When the family first discovers the Ouija board’s properties, the film takes on an almost Spielbergian sense of wonder. Though this camaraderie is short-lived, it helps us grow attached to the characters, and when things ultimately take a dark turn, it’s all the more upsetthttps://horrorpress.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=2195&action=edit#wpseo-meta-section-readabilitying. Lulu Wilson is a wonder herself, embodying a child gradually being taken over by an evil entity in a way that not many could turn out at that age. She becomes cold and calculated, uttering unholy whispers into the ears of her loved ones, and even takes part in a jaw-dropping moment of CGI body horror that isn’t something you’ll soon forget.
There are an appropriate amount of jump scares and creepy imagery, and it’s not much of a spoiler to suggest things end in tragedy for this family. It’s a far cry from the 2014 Ouija, which offs characters we barely know in quick succession and includes only a single notable scary moment.
Why Horror Needs Better Sequels, Not More of Them
Suffice it to say, choosing the “Expansion Pack” route for a sequel and hiring an auteur of Flanagan’s caliber proved wise. The studio managed to turn a Fillet-o-Fish into a filet mignon paired with some fava beans and a nice Chianti. We all enjoy kicking back with a Friday the 13th sequel now and again – it’s almost like comfort food – and I genuinely mean no disrespect toward your B-movie favorites. They’re great fun and a necessary pillar of the genre, but sometimes it’s nice to be challenged by horror. Or, at the very least, kept guessing.
You can only go in blind to a franchise once if every sequel is more of the same, and eventually, the magic is lost. Whether it’s a total tonal change-up, a salacious satire, or one of the elusive sequels that go smaller and more concise, I welcome change in the horror genre and hope filmmakers continue to embrace it, too.
The United States spent most of this year celebrating its 250th anniversary. There have been parades, fireworks, and endless reminders of what the nation wants us to think are its founding ideals. Yet anniversaries are as much about what we choose to remember as they are about what we choose to forget. There is another anniversary this year. Five years ago this month, Candyman was released. The fact that both that film and America are sharing an anniversary this year may have been an accident, but that makes it no less significant.
Released amid another national reckoning over race, Nia DaCosta’s film asks a question that every celebration of America ought to confront: Is it possible to commemorate this nation without fully reckoning with the violence woven into its history? More than a sequel to a horror classic, Candyman is a meditation on the ghosts that haunt America because it has never fully reckoned with the past that created them.
How the Original Candyman Confronted America’s Racial History
The original Candyman understood this. Released in 1992 and set in the almost post-apocalyptic urban decay that was Chicago’s Cabrini-Green housing projects, Bernard Rose’s film arrived only months after the L.A. Race Riots, a moment when this country was coming to terms with the way the country’s relationship with Black folks was shaped by decades of segregation and racism.
Most audiences saw a supernatural slasher about a hook-handed killer summoned by saying his name five times into a mirror. But beneath the horror was a far more unsettling story. Candyman was about the lingering consequences of America’s racial history and the way white America has sometimes turned Black suffering into myth instead of confronting the systems that produced it.
The film’s true horror was never simply Candyman. It was the realization that monsters can be born from histories a nation refuses to face. That is exactly where the 2021 film expands the original’s vision.
Nia DaCosta’s Candyman Turns One Ghost Into Many
Bernard Rose’s Candyman explored the legacy of a single act of racist terror. Nia DaCosta’s film argues that the tragedy wasn’t confined to Daniel Robitaille, the man who became the monster. The 2021 film posits that Candyman is not one man but many.
Daniel Robitaille was lynched for loving a white woman. Sherman Fields takes on the mantle of the supernatural slasher because he was beaten to death by police after being falsely accused of harming a child. Anthony McCoy ultimately becomes part of the same legend. Their stories span generations, but they are connected by a nation that repeatedly produces the same injustice under different names at different points in history. The genius of the sequel is that it transforms Candyman from an individual ghost into a symbol of America’s recurring racial violence.
Candyman Shows How History Repeats Itself
History, the film suggests, is not something that happened once. It is something that keeps happening. That is why Candyman is one of my favorite films to teach in my Film and Philosophy course.
Students walk into class expecting a horror movie. They leave wrestling with questions about history, memory, and justice. We spend little time talking about jump scares or gore. (Because, let’s be honest, there is not much of that in the film.) Instead, we ask why some histories become legends while others are forgotten, what societies owe their victims, and whether a nation can ever move forward without honestly confronting the violence that shaped it.
The Horror of Remembering What America Wants to Forget
A good horror film reveals what we fear. What makes Candyman great is how it reveals what we would rather not remember. That is what haunted me the first time I saw it, long after the credits had rolled.
Five years after its release, Candyman remains one of the most unsettling movies in recent years because the history it confronts is not safely behind us. The original film understood that America’s racial violence could not simply be buried, while the 2021 film showed how easily that violence can be reproduced across generations.
Its Unquestionable Legacy in Horror
As America celebrates 250 years, Candyman reminds us that commemorating the nation’s founding requires remembering all this country’s history, including the parts that make the celebration uncomfortable.
We cannot exorcise a ghost by refusing to acknowledge why it exists. Perhaps that is the film’s most important lesson. The past does not haunt us because we remember it. It haunts us because we don’t.
Sometimes it feels borderline ridiculous to gush about John Carpenter’s The Thing as much as I do. It’s gotten to the point where when I’m asked about my favorite horror film by both friends and strangers, a little bit of embarrassment tinges my expression as I answer; it feels so obvious and rarely surprises anyone. Saying I love The Thing when people expect me to bust out an obscure foreign horror film or a cerebral thriller makes me feel like a rosy cheeked child with a propeller hat and a giant lollipop. “Wow, you love one of the most popular horror films of all time, congrats!”
But it’s just the truth. The first film of John Carpenter’s “Apocalypse Trilogy”, all three of its films are among my favorites. But The Thing has a special place in my heart. It shaped my taste in horror, my taste in most media in general, to be honest. It’s become the gold standard, 10/10 baseline test for the vast majority of my reviews; it is a perfect film, so I judge other films against it. And it’s one of the few movies I have to run back to and watch yearly like clockwork (usually when I’m spending a part of winter tied to the couch). It is, in all regards, the perfect film. If it isn’t the perfect film, then it is at the very least the perfect sci-fi horror film.
So, what exactly qualifies The Thing for literal perfection? It’s a high bar to clear. This article, as informal as it is compared to most of my editorials, is an attempt to explain it.
Even if Carpenter Isn’t the Goat, His Team for The Thing Was
As far as crews go, John Carpenter’s The Thing had the cinematic equivalent of the ’96 Chicago Bulls behind it. We’re talking about an amalgam of some of the most talented people to ever grace the silver screens with their work, boasting alongside John Carpenter two of the heaviest hitters in all of cinematic history: Dean Cundey, and Rob Bottin. Now, we can debate all day about whether John Carpenter is the greatest of all time when it comes to horror directors. Personally, I’m just as liable to say Cronenberg, Del Toro, or Hooper as I am to say Carpenter.
But the key factor to remember here is that Carpenter is the coach, not the star player; the Phil Jackson, if you will. Yes, he is the visionary who directed a near perfect cast of players and composed a tale of pure, apocalyptic paranoia. More importantly, he put together and coordinated the team that would make his vision manifest as reality. And if Carpenter is Phil Jackson, Rob Bottin is the team’s Michael Jordan here, the greatest of all time.
(And to all my Lebron fans, I love you, but you have to sit down for this analogy.)
The Legend of Rob Bottin
Bottin’s story is borderline unbelievable, but it’s the best way to explain how abnormally skilled he is and what he brought to the table for Carpenter. At age 14, Bottin became an apprentice to the at-the-time GOAT Rick Baker after sending him a letter seeking an autograph while sharing his creature designs. He was a quick study under Baker, joining him on the ’76 King Kong and Star Wars, before bouncing to Carpenter’s The Fog and then iconic werewolf picture The Howling.
When he reunited with Carpenter in 1982, he now had 6 classic films under his belt and was moving like an FX bullet train. From ages 22 to 23, he worked on The Thing for 57 weeks in both pre-production and on set. Nearly 24/7 for 400 days, Bottin’s all-gas no-brakes work ethic made The Thing at the cost of his own health, and it resulted in him being hospitalized with pneumonia. He survived and went on to make Robocop. And at least one of your favorite films.
Because no conventional disease or weaponry can kill Rob Bottin.
The Thing Still Features Horror’s Best Practical Effects
Okay, that last bit might be hyperbolic, but the man sincerely put his life on the line to make special effects that haven’t been topped since. Not the best effects in just horror history, or science fiction history, but effects that haven’t been topped in any genre for over 44 years. Not by his mentor Rick Baker, not by Screaming Mad George, not by Alec Gillis (though shoutout to him for his criminally scrapped work on The Thing (2011), and even more criminally ignored work on Harbinger Down). I love Dawn of the Dead, believe me, I do, but he certainly isn’t being beaten out by Tom Savini’s body of work. And that isn’t to disrespect and say that all of the artists that I just mentioned are bad, they’re the best in the game! But Rob Bottin was just that much better.
This inevitably invites the counterpoint: “But it wasn’t just Bottin! Stan Winston and his people were the ones who worked on the Dog Thing to give Bottin’s crew a break, and that’s the best monster in the movie!”. To which I say: look me in the eye and tell me the Dog Thing sequence is better than the Palmer Thing sequence. That’s not even counting the Norwegian Thing, both Norris Things, and the absolutely masterful final creature work that was the Blair Thing. The only reason Bottin and his people didn’t win Academy Awards for their work was because they got jumped by E.T., The Dark Crystal, Conan the Barbarian, and Blade Runner all at the same time at the Oscars. It’s just a consequence of being released during the best year for movies ever.
Okay, Now We Can Talk About Dean Cundey
But of course, these effects are then supported by another true legend: Dean Cundey. Selling people on Rob Bottin being the greatest effects artist of all time, isn’t nearly as difficult as advocating for Cundey, who despite an impressive catalog of filmography, slowed down in the back half of his career. He’s often overshadowed in conversations when it comes to The Thing; it’s always talk of Carpenter’s directing, Bottin’s effects, and Ennio Morricone’s incredible soundtrack up front, and rarely any of Cundey’s work. He isn’t spoken about in the same breath as John Alcott or Michael Ballhaus, cinematographers whose work is associated with prestigious cinema because of their proximity to great directors.
Cundey might not be the director of photography your Martin Scorsese’s or Paul Thomas Anderson’s went running to, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t think he was the most important cinematographer in horror history, just for his work with Carpenter and Spielberg. He helmed three of the most influential films in all of horror with his lighting and camera operating: The Thing, Halloween, and Jurassic Park. The man’s fingerprints are automatically on the cultural DNA of all slashers, most practical effects-driven horror films, and the biggest gateway horror franchise in film history.
The Dream Team That Made The Thing Perfection
Cundey has gone on record saying that despite Carpenter’s input, he was effectively given free rein to light and frame The Thing. The man didn’t just know how to shoot effects to make them evoke true disgust from the audience, he was able to manipulate every aspect of the shot to terrify. His sixth sense cinematography wasn’t just for lighting and playing with shadows, but for the speed of camera movement, the power of his blocking, and for having a complete grasp of communicating texture and temperature.
And temperature is the soul of The Thing. John J. Lloyd’s production design of the research station and the great white expanse around it feels just as bone chilling as the film’s antagonist, thanks to Cundey. There isn’t a single flat shot in the thing, not a moment that doesn’t feel dynamic, and it’s because of Dean Cundey.
Now, all this being said about Bottin and Cundey, they are far from the only ones who synthesized this structurally perfect organism of a movie. Every bit of Todd C. Ramsay’s editing splices the film’s scenes together to move perfectly in-time. David Lewis Yewdall’s sound design and how it gave a voice to the horrors on screen will be etched into people’s brains forever. The point is that everyone, every single person who had a hand in making the film, helped make the movie flawless.
Like the cells of the thing from another world, each crew member on John Carpenter’s The Thing moved in concert with the next, in unison, to create the greatest sci-fi horror of all time. So, is it any wonder why 40 some years later, the film still has us all captured?
