All language subtitles for Leap.of.Faith.William.Friedkin.on.the.Exorcist.2019.1080p.WEBRip.x265-RARBG-English -2sec

The word "possesses"
possesses more S's

than any other word possesses.

This is Bill Friedkin,
day one, take one.

Everything has to do with
the mystery of fate or faith.

And "The Exorcist" is about
the mystery of faith.

The only film
that influenced me

in the making of "The Exorcist"
was Dreyer's film "Ordet."

There were no films about
possession that I knew about.

There were no religious films

that weren't really sappy
at the time,

like "The Ten Commandments"
was largely spectacle.

"Ordet" is a simple,
elegant film.

It's so beautifully staged
and photographed,

and it contains
elegant simplicity to show

what amounts to literal
resurrection in the film.

I can't watch it
without bursting into tears.

You totally believe it.

There is no question
that this is happening.

It's not a cinematic trick.

I asked "The Exorcist" audience

to believe in
what they were seeing.

I'm a strong believer in fate,
that it's very difficult

for anyone to control
their own destiny.

You can do certain things,

but in many ways,
I think biology is destiny.

I don't know how I ever got
into the film business

coming from where I came from.

I lived in a one-room apartment
in Chicago

with my mother and father.

My mother took me --

I don't know how old I was,
7 years old, maybe --

to a movie theater
called the Pantheon,

which was on Sheridan Road
in Chicago.

We go in this large place,
a lot of people around.

I don't know
what they're doing there.

I don't know
what's gonna happen.

All of a sudden,
the lights went down.

The lights went
to complete darkness,

and I heard what
turned out to be the parting

of a gigantic set of curtains,

and then a light appeared
on a screen

with some titles on it,
and I screamed.

It was sheer terror
of the process.

I think it was a film called
"None but the Lonely Heart"

with Cary Grant,
a Clifford Odets story.

Love me, son?

Disgraced you.
Disgraced you.

Disgraced me, ma?

No, ma, no,
didn't disgrace me.

This is your son
Ernie Mott,

the boy who needs you,
loves you, wants you.

I was in my 20s,

and I was working first
in the mailroom

at a television station
in Chicago

right out of high school.
I never went to college.

A friend of mine
casually mentioned

there's a movie playing
at a theater called the Surf.

"What is it?" "'Citizen Kane.'"

And I went to the noon show,

and I stayed there
for the rest of the day.

And I was just flabbergasted.

When I left the theater
around after midnight,

I thought,
"I have no idea what this is,

but that's what
I'd like to do."

Charles?

Yes, Mommy?

Mr. Thatcher is going to take
you on a trip with him tonight.

"Citizen Kane" is
about the mystery of fate

and how fate took this little
boy away from a poor cabin.

And because his mother was left
a worthless deed

to the Colorado Lode,

he became the richest man
in America.

This was an act of fate.

The meaning of "rosebud"
is the biblical idea

of what shall it profit a man

if he should gain
the whole world...

But lose his own soul?

The "rosebud" moment is profound
and in a class by itself.

Kubrick did it in "The Killing."

The great expense of stealing
all this racetrack money

and $2 million
floats up into the air.

That's a great
"rosebud" moment,

as is the moment in "The
Treasure of the Sierra Madre"

when all of the gold bags
are cut open by the bandits

who steal them because
they think they're water.

It's an underlying
statement about the futility,

the futility of everything.

Throw that junk in.

And this incredible
idea of a lost pure...

love is burned up.

What a profound statement,
and what an incredible idea.

And there's not
a day in my life

that I don't feel
like a fraud.

I mean, priests,
doctor, lawyers --

I've talked
to them all.

There's serendipity connected
with all of the films I made.

But nothing like "The Exorcist."

I feel to this day as though
there were forces beyond me

that brought things
to that movie like offerings.

The whole picture
was put together

by the movie god,
from Blatty sending me the novel

after we had not seen each other
for years.

The studio didn't want me
to direct the film initially.

I went on to win
the Academy Award,

which was a longshot.

I wasn't even a member
of the Academy.

All of it.

It's fate.

Yeah, fate.

I only can make a film if
I can see it in my mind's eye,

and in a very short time,

the whole film popped into
my head from his novel.

I knew exactly
how I wanted to make it,

what I wanted to keep
from his book,

what I wanted to leave out.

I didn't want any backstory,
no flashbacks,

just a straight-ahead story

that was done
as realistically as possible.

After I was finally hired
to direct the film,

Blatty came to me with
a little envelope, and he said,

"I've got a surprise for you.

I've written the script."

I didn't know that.
He gave me the script.

It was about this thick.

I felt it was a travesty
of his novel,

and I told him that.

It had flashbacks,
it had red herrings.

I said, "Bill, this --
your script is not the book.

I really want
to shoot the novel."

So I marked up my own copy
of the hardcover,

the first edition.

I mark things in, out, in, out.

I cross things out.

Go from this sequence to that.

I literally marked it up
so that mostly,

he could see what I wanted
to keep from the novel

and what I felt we didn't need.

Blatty had omitted the prologue

in the first draft
of his script,

and I told him his worst enemy
would not have...

done this to him.

Everyone,
including his publisher, said,

"You don't need this prologue."

They didn't understand it.

I said,
"Bill, we have to open in Iraq."

That opening chapter...

that started my skin crawling
when I read it,

and I didn't know why.

I'm sure a lot of people
to this day are puzzled,

"What the hell is that?"

But it is the introduction,
and the -- to me,

the very solid underpinning
for the whole piece.

We got permission to go.

I knew basically
where I wanted to go,

which was in northern Iraq,

the little town
where we wound up filming,

which is Nineveh in the Bible.

It's called al-Hatra,
or al-Hadr, H-A-D-R,

to the Iraqis.

There happened to be
a German archeologist

working there
with a German crew

and Iraqis
that were doing a dig there,

and I met with him and asked him
if we could film this actual dig

and have Max von Sydow walking
around while it was going on.

And so that's what we did.

It was an actual dig,

and the stuff
they were coming up with

were the severed heads
of statues

because it turned out that
at some point before Christ,

the city of Hadr had been
sacked by the Sasanians,

I believe it's 80 B.C.

They cut off the heads
of everybody living there,

and they cut off
the heads of the statues.

And this is what the archeology
team was coming up with,

along with other artifacts,
which I show in the film.

Jack Nitzsche rubbed his hand
over a wine glass,

and that makes the opening sound
of "The Exorcist."

And then it segues from that to
something we recorded in Mosul,

which is the muezzin's
call to prayer in Arabic.

The words "Allahu Akbar,
Allahu Akbar,"

"God is good" in Arabic.

"God is great."

Those are the first words
of the film,

the first words in
Blatty's novel, northern Iraq.

That's where it took place.

You couldn't go out into
the Mojave Desert and shoot it.

There was no CGI in those days.

You had to go there.

There's one side angle
that I made especially

because in the background of
von Sydow, not too far away,

is the tomb
of King Nebuchadnezzar,

which is built on top of
the tomb of the prophet David.

That's where we were.

The movie opens
with a bright sun.

When we got into
the color-timing room,

I decided to open the film
with a black and white sun

that slowly bleeds into color.

I don't think

there's any conscious meaning
behind my choices.

These are instinctive things
that don't...

translate into a how.

It looks like, in retrospect,
I knew what I was doing,

but I was just
following my instinct.

And I believe
that's what happened

throughout the entire film.

This is from Bill Blatty's novel
"The Exorcist."

It's the beginning.

"The blaze
of sun wrung pops of sweat

from the old man's brow.

He kept his hands
around the glass of hot,

sweet tea as if to warm them.

He could not shake
the premonition.

It clung to his back
like chill wet leaves."

So that paragraph is about
one word -- "premonition."

And so he looks around,
and he sees various things

that add to the premonition --

blacksmiths who are pounding,
bending steel,

and one of them turns
and looks at him

and has an eye missing,

similar to the way the demon
looks when she's levitating.

And a lot of people think
that it foreshadows something.

I had no intention
of foreshadowing anything

that I shot there.

I just shot what was of interest
and put it in the film,

and over the decades, it's been
interpreted and reinterpreted.

Some of the interpretations
make sense to me.

They were never intended.

The clock stopping.

I don't know
what the hell it means.

I never thought about
imposing...

metaphor or meaning,
other than the St. Joseph Medal

that is falling in
Father Karras' dream

that was the medal that was
found in Iraq by Father Merrin,

and he scratches around further

and comes up
with a small head of Pazuzu

attached to some mud
that's embedded itself on it.

And he scrapes away
the face of it,

and he -- you just see his face
react to the image of Pazuzu.

And he right there
gets the premonition

of -- of the whole movie,
of everything that's to come.

The opening in Iraq
does set the tone

and the mood
for the entire film,

the atmosphere of dread and
an ancient supernatural mystery.

Without saying anything
about what I just said,

it brings about the appearance
of the Abyssinian demon Pazuzu.

It shows the character
of Father Merrin

as an archeologist priest,
and it lingers over...

more than an hour's worth
of film

before you ever see
Father Merrin again.

He had
performed exorcism before.

That comes out later.

Don't you think
he's too old, Tom?

How's his health?

He must be alright.

He's still running around,
digging up tombs.

Besides,
he's had experience.

I didn't know that.

10, 12 years ago, I think,
in Africa.

The exorcism
supposedly lasted a month.

Heard it damn near
killed him.

Then he gets a premonition
that you, the audience,

have to sense that he's going to
face this ancient enemy again.

So to me,

it's every bit as important
as any scene in "The Exorcist"

to set the mood
and set off the idea...

of the supernatural
in our midst.

That whole idea of...

building a mood
as well as a story is gone.

I will tell you that
in most of my films,

but especially "The Exorcist,"

I was strongly influenced
by music.

And I've always...

been consciously
and unconsciously influenced

by music
that builds layer upon layer,

things like Stravinsky's
"The Rite of Spring,"

which is a slow build.

Stravinsky said
it starts quietly

because if you start with drums,
you have to end with thunder,

so he started with
a solo instrument

playing a very quiet melody.

It then builds into
one of the most powerful

and in a way terrifying pieces
of music ever written.

I love films that build
layer on layer,

like "2001," like "Psycho."

That's all about maintaining
a tone and a mood

and creating it
from a dead start.

The mood of a film changes.

There are moments
of extreme brightness

and happiness in the early parts
of "The Exorcist."

Oh, I love you.

I love you.

The tone is the same
almost throughout --

an overriding sense of dread
that inhabits the entire picture

and that audiences were
and are usually aware of

before they go to see the film.

You really don't want me
to play, huh?

No, I do.

Captain Howdy said no.

Captain who?

Captain Howdy.

Who's Captain Howdy?

You know, the mood goes from

wonderful
mother-daughter relationship

into an extreme alteration
of a 12-year-old's personality.

Lick me!
Lick me!

In many of the sequences,
even earlier ones,

seem to foreshadow
what's to come.

I was very conscious and aware

that by the time
people started to see the film,

word would get around
what it was about.

I knew that people
would be aware

they were coming to see a film
about demonic possession,

not a girl who had a problem
with her brain.

It takes a while to get
to the possession,

as well it should.

Mom,
you should've seen.

This man came along
on this beautiful gray horse.

You have to see
what this young child was like

before her appearance

and her behavior
altered completely.

And of course, the possession
scenes had to top one another.

It starts very early
with just a bed shaking

and no dramatic changes
in the girl's character,

and it builds
to complete personality change,

superhuman strength,
and horrible actions by the girl

that a 12-year-old would be
incapable of committing.

There is a concept
that I was aware of at the time

called expectancy set.

If you're walking down
a dark street at night

where there has been
a crime recently or a murder,

there's something that occurs
within you,

where you get butterflies.

Mother?

What's wrong with me?

And that works on audiences.

They come in
wanting to be scared,

and you can --
you can play on that.

It's just like
the doctor said,

it's nerves,
and that's all.

Okay?

Burke Dennings,
good Father,

was found at the bottom of
those steps leading to M Street

with his head turned
completely around,

facing backwards.

I remember
when I was growing up

and I used to walk
to high school in Chicago,

and I would walk through
a neighborhood

where there had been
a brutal, vicious murder,

where a young girl
in a house along the way...

had been taken out of her
bedroom window and decapitated.

And the body parts
were lying on the lawn

and in the streets
outside the house,

and I remember consciously

walking past
that house of horrors

every day
on my way to high school

and thinking about that brutal
crime that took place there.

I have an idea
before I shoot a scene

of how I think it should look,

and then
when we're filming the scene,

I might see something that makes
me want to have another angle

or a different -- a closer angle
or have no coverage whatsoever.

In "The Exorcist," we were often
in cramped settings,

you know, in very tight spaces,
and it was difficult to get...

either a second
or multiple cameras.

Or it was a play,

and in many ways,
he filmed it like a play.

That's the simplicity of it.

Today, cinema,
even widescreen cinema,

even action-adventure films,
rely on the close-up.

If you see a film
as powerful as "Ordet,"

you realize it's a cop-out.

I can't think of
any close-ups in "Ordet."

Look, there is nothing
more powerful

than a close-up
of Steve McQueen.

Not the greatest landscape
you could film,

not the Taj Mahal, has the power
of a close-up of Steve McQueen.

You could tell what McQueen
was thinking without words.

Dreyer's film of Joan of Arc

is built on close-ups
of the main character

going through her suffering
and her passion at the stake.

When you see a play on
the stage, like "12 Angry Men,"

you make your own close-ups.

In cinema, the director makes
that decision for you.

In the film "Ordet,"

Dreyer did not make
that decision.

The best way to do anything
is with simplicity.

Hitchcock usually found
the simplest solution,

even in complex situations,
like what was it like for a guy

to be stabbed and fall backwards
down the stairs?

Hitchcock's films are about
the possibilities of cinema.

As an observer who happens
to be a film director,

you have to look at something
and decide how to film it.

So you have to envision first
what is the event

that's gonna take place
in these different locations?

And they're speaking to you
while you're doing that.

Some inner voice is saying,
"What about this?"

Then you're trying to figure out
how to put it together

so that it becomes
kind of seamless

because it's all made up
of separate shots

in a -- the way
a Jackson Pollock painting

is made up of dots

and the Monet impressions are
made up of just brush strokes.

"The Exorcist"
and "The French Connection,"

many parts of them
look like a documentary,

but I had made documentaries and
so I knew the approach to that.

When you make a documentary,
as you're doing now,

you don't know what
the subject's gonna say,

and so you roll with the flow.

And it has often rough edges.

I like the rough edges.

I had this great camera operator
on a number of films,

but he started with me
on "The French Connection."

His name was Ricky Bravo.

He photographed the Cuban
Revolution at Castro's side

from the Sierra Maestra
mountains to Havana,

and Ricky could do anything
with a handheld camera.

I wouldn't let Ricky
be on the set

while Owen was lighting the set.

When we were lit,

I'd say, "Okay, Ricky,
we're ready to shoot,"

and I'd let him go
and find the scene.

And I would say to him,
"Don't ever cut.

Just keep the camera rolling
and just find the shot,

as you did with Castro."

So I'd set up a scene,

two guys walk into a room,
as in "French Connection."

They go over the desk
where a guy sits down.

The other two guys flank him,
they move around,

and Ricky's finding the scene
like it's a documentary.

And sometimes, he would cut,

and I said, "Ricky,
I told you never to cut.

Why did you cut?"

He said, "Oh, this
fellow was completely blocked.

He was blocked
by the other guy."

I said, "Ricky,
is that what you said to Castro

when he was
in the mountains up there?

Did you say,
'We got to do it again, Fidel,

because you got blocked?'"

In most people's mind,

a feature film is different
from a documentary.

A feature film is like a play,

and it's all set up
and lit and composed.

I don't look at it that way.

I'm more interested
in spontaneity than perfection,

and you don't get spontaneity
on take 90.

William Wyler was --

his nickname
was "90-take Wyler."

His films are great,

and whatever
his technique was --

I wasn't there.

"The Best Years of Our Lives"
is as good as anything.

He did a lot of takes,

and he used to shoot around
the clock, setups everywhere.

But they were
his insurance policy.

He felt that need,

and I know that Kubrick is said
to have done 90 to 100 takes.

I'm a one-take guy.

I don't believe in take two.

Von Sydow was great until he got
to a point in the scene

where Father Merrin
has to declaim at the demon,

"I cast you out, unclean spirit,
in the name of the father

and of the Son
and of the Holy Spirit,"

and that had to be done
powerfully by a man

who we have established

is taking little nitroglycerin
pills for his heart condition,

is on the verge of death.

But he had to come up
with this powerful reading,

and for some reason,
Max couldn't do it.

It wasn't powerful enough.

The scene needed,
you know, brass, not strings.

And I said,
"Max, what is wrong?

I'll do anything that
you suggest to get you to do --

we'll fly Ingmar Bergman in here
to direct this scene."

And he said very calmly,
"No, no, no, no."

He said, "This is -- This is not
a matter of Bergman.

I guess what it is is that
I just don't believe in God."

I said...

"But you played...

Jesus in the movie
'The Greatest Story Ever Told.'"

He said, "Yes.

I played him as a man,
not as a god."

What is your name?
Jesus.

That's a good name.

Thank you.

I said, "Well,
play this guy as a man."

And he said, "Okay.

Give me a little time."

We left him alone
in the dressing room,

he came out, he went in front
of the camera and did it,

and that's what's in the film.

I cast you out,
unclean spirit!

Shove it up your ass,
you faggot!

In the name
of our Lord Jesus Christ.

It is
he who commands you,

he who flung you
from the gates of Heaven

- to the depths of Hell!
- Fuck him!

- Be gone...
- Fuck him, Karras! Fuck him!

...from this creature
of God!

I don't understand that.

I don't know
what happened there.

That's one of
the strangest things

that happened to me
as a director,

and his reason
for not being able to do it

was so foreign to me

because what --
what is an actor doing?

Acting!

Years later,
Blatty and I talked about that.

Blatty said to me,

"I think he just didn't want
to do it that way."

Max's strength and power came
from understatement as an actor.

The main thing about getting
what you want as a director

is how you cast the picture.

If you've miscast it,

you'll never get
what you want -- ever.

Blatty wrote himself
as Father Karras.

He drew on his own feelings,
his own experiences.

He set the film in Iraq

because he had been to Iraq
as a correspondent.

Now, I'm going to
confess something

that I don't think
I've ever said before in public,

and that is the fact
that Blatty wanted to give me

his entire percentage
of profit of the movie

to let him play Father Karras.

And I didn't see him
as Father Karras.

I saw a play called
"That Championship Season"

by Jason Miller.

It turned out that he had gone

to Catholic University
in Washington,

studied for the priesthood
for three years,

had a crisis of faith,
and dropped out,

and then he put all this
lapsed Catholicism in his play.

Bless me, Father,
for I have sinned.

So I told him I was making
the film of "The Exorcist."

I told him how much
I loved his play,

and about a week or so later,

I got a call in California
from Jason in New York.

And he said, "Hey, you know
that 'Exorcist' book

you were telling me about?"

He said, "I read that book."

He said, "I am that guy."

He said, "I am that guy."

I said, "Well,
you're not that guy.

We've signed another actor."

Before I ever met Jason Miller,

we signed an actor named
Stacy Keach to play that part.

No man is just
because he does just works.

The works are just
if the man is just.

He said, "I want --
Why don't you screen-test me?"

I said -- I got angry.

I said, "What for?

I told you, I've cast the part."

He said, "I'm telling you,"

and so I said, "Okay,
you want to shoot a screen test,

I'll set up a test for you,
and after it's over,

I'll take the film
out of the camera

and give it to you and you can
show it to your grandchildren.

You come out here
on your own nickel,

knowing that
we've cast the part."

We set up a dolly track
on an empty soundstage

with just lights, no set.

I called in Ellen Burstyn,
who I had cast...

to do a scene with Jason,

the scene where
she's walking along a path

in Georgetown
and tells Father Karras...

It just so happens

that somebody
very close to me is...

is probably possessed
and needs an exorcist.

Then I had Ellen interview Jason
about his life,

where I put the camera over her
shoulder and just studied him,

and then I made a shot of him,
an extreme close of him,

saying the -- the mass.

The next day,
I saw the rushes of that scene,

and the camera just loved him.

I went to John Calley
at Warner Bros.

I said,
"I'm gonna hire this guy."

He said,
"He's a complete unknown.

He's nobody.

You have Stacy Keach."

I said, "I don't care.

This is the guy.

I don't have to direct this guy.

He is the guy."

And we went with him.

I wasn't proud of it,

but we had to pay off
Stacy Keach.

Paid him in full, his salary.

And they did think I was nuts,

but I had what has been
described by Fritz Lang

as a kind of
sleepwalker's security.

I personally think...

that I made my films

with a kind of
sleepwalking security.

I did things...

which I thought were right.

Period.

That's what I had
when I made "The Exorcist."

I felt that every decision
I made was the right decision,

and I didn't question
my instincts.

And I had the power...

then to do that.

The studio had offered it
to Stanley Kubrick,

Arthur Penn, and Mike Nichols.

Those three guys passed.

They didn't know
how to make the picture,

but I did know
how to make the picture.

And they sensed that.

And Jason's great in the film.

He shouldn't have been
in that picture.

I accidentally saw his play.

I accidentally was moved by it,
another gift from the movie god.

Look, it's very difficult for
an actor, even a great actor,

to produce an emotion
in front of a camera.

Behind the camera may be dozens,

if not more, people standing
right behind the camera,

walking around, milling,
reading the newspaper sometimes,

eating lunch.

I met Father Bill O'Malley,

who plays Father Dyer
in "The Exorcist,"

through Bill Blatty,
and I met him.

And I could see and hear
instantly that he was Dyer,

but he wasn't an actor.

He is a priest,
and I just turned him loose...

My idea of heaven
is a solid white nightclub

with me as a headliner
for all eternity,

and they love me.

...until we came to the scene
where he has to come to tears

as he's giving the last rites
to his good friend who's dying,

and O'Malley couldn't do it.

And I took O'Malley aside
and I said,

"Bill, do you love me?"

He said,

"Yes,
of course I love you, Bill.

You know that."

I said, "Do you trust me?"

Said, "Of course I trust you."

I said, "Okay,"
and I turned away

and then I hit him
full in the face.

I smacked him in the face,
and I pushed him

in front of the camera
and I said, "Action."

And afterward, he hugged me
and thanked me

because there was no other way
he was gonna ever get to that,

but I don't think I would
do that again that way.

Techniques like that would --
would not go over today.

That wasn't something
I invented.

That was done by directors
like John Ford

and George Stevens
to produce that emotion.

Ford and Stevens -- they do
whatever technique worked.

I remember seeing a story
in Life magazine,

a photo essay
on the production of the film

"The Diary of Anne Frank,"
directed by George Stevens.

So they had a big set built
of the top-floor apartment

where the Frank family
was hiding,

and they were in abject fear

when the Nazi sirens would go by
in the streets of Amsterdam.

And there's a picture
of George Stevens

sitting on top of the set
on the crossbeams with a rifle,

and he used to shoot off a rifle

to get a reaction
from the people in the room.

And I did that all
throughout "The Exorcist" film.

There's the one shot I remember
in particular.

It's a tight close-up
with Jason Miller

is working at the desk
in his room,

and then a phone rings.

I didn't play a phone.

I shot a rifle.

There are many ways
in which you work

with the actors and the crew.

There's no one technique.

With someone like Ellen Burstyn
or Max von Sydow, Lee J. Cobb,

one of the greatest
American actors who ever lived,

you don't give them
a lot of direction.

You talk initially
before you shoot the film,

make sure you're
on the same page,

and then they go out
and they do it.

And if you need or want
to correct anything,

you'll say something to them,

much as the conductor
of a symphony orchestra

talks to the members
of the orchestra.

That section a little softer
or a little louder

or faster or slower,

and that's basically
all you'll adjust

with -- with a great actor.

Might your daughter
remember, perhaps,

if Mr. Dennings
was in her room that night?

My favorite scene
in "The Exorcist"

is a scene where Lee J. Cobb,
who plays Detective Kinderman,

is at the opposite end
of a table from Ellen Burstyn,

and it's a very quiet scene
where very little happens

in which he suggests to her
without saying it

that her daughter
might have pushed a man

out of her bedroom window.

Just two setups --

one over her shoulder,
one over his --

that moves toward
each one of them,

just pulling
the audience closer.

All interior,

and I remember saying to them,
yes, just interiorize that.

Ellen,
you know what he's saying,

but you can't show it.

Don't show him
how this is killing you inside.

Suppress that emotion
throughout,

and she played that scene
so beautifully.

That's the way
she wanted to play it.

Same with Lee.

As the tension is relieved,

the camera almost imperceptibly
moves away from that.

The scene I've just described
is...

one of the most
tension-filled in the film

because of what's being said.

She's sitting there
at the table.

She says to him,
not knowing what to say...

Would you like
some more coffee?

...hoping that he'll say, "No,
I'm fine," and get out of there,

and he turns and says...

Please.

Oh, my God.

That moment on her
is devastating.

And he calmly suggests to her...

You might
ask your daughter

if she remembers

seeing Mr. Dennings
in her room that night.

Look, he -- he wouldn't
have any reason

in the world
to up to her room.

Oh, I know,
I realize,

but if certain
British doctors never asked,

"What is this fungus?"

we wouldn't today
have penicillin, correct?

It's a brilliant dialogue,
and he then says...

I-I really hate
to ask you this, but...

for --
for my daughter,

could you please
give an autograph?

And that completely
relieves the tension.

You're a very nice lady.

- Thank you.
- You're a nice man.

Wonderful character scene
with very few words,

but the tension
is totally relieved

because after he goes
out the door,

all hell will break loose
in the house.

And after he leaves,

I added the sound of
a ticking grandfather clock...

which to the audience
has the effect of a bomb ticking

before it goes off.

It's a quiet

There is a grandfather clock
buried in the shot,

but for the most part,
you would not be conscious of it

if you were in the room with it.

And then all of a sudden,
there's a scream

that comes from upstairs,
which is the bomb going off.

Nothing is more shocking than...

the masturbation scene,
and that was Blatty's intent.

And I told him,

and he agreed, that I wasn't
going to sugarcoat it.

Here it is.
This is what happens.

Let Jesus fuck you!
Let Jesus fuck you!

Let him fuck you!

It was...extremely disturbing,
that sequence,

both to conceive of and to shoot

because it's probably
the only time in any film

where something like
the crucifix and the vagina

are brought into
the same frame of film.

I came up with this notion,

which I discussed
with Dick Smith,

that the makeup should be
organic to something

that Regan had done to herself,

and it occurred to me that the
makeup should grow out of that.

Dick Smith liked that idea,

and he then created the makeup
to grow out

of what appeared to be

gangrenous self-inflicted wounds
on her face.

Ensor is
one of my favorite artists

who influenced me a great deal,

and the masks in a film I made
called "The Brink's Job,"

which is about a famous robbery
in the 1950s,

are inspired by
Ensor's paintings of masks.

I showed these masks to
Dick Smith for "The Exorcist"

just to show

certain expressive things
that were possible.

The first makeup test that
Dick did was just white face...

dark eyes, red lines
under the face,

and I didn't like it.

I thought it looked like makeup,

but then some months later
in the cutting room,

the editor, Bud Smith,

showed me
the makeup tests again.

He said, "Look at this frame."

When you see just a frame
or two of it, it's shocking,

and it speaks volumes.

It's not in the script.

I decided to put it in later,

and then when I did
the 2000 version,

I added a couple of more.

I think all of us
probably think...

in subliminal perception.

First time I saw it was done
by Alain Resnais

in "Last Year at Marienbad"
and in "Hiroshima Mon Amour."

And that made a profound
impression on me,

and I used it in "The Exorcist."

I've used subliminal cuts
in "Cruising"

during the murder scenes

and in "Sorcerer"
as momentary mental flashbacks.

I did that with sound, as well,

but it's much
more imperceptible.

Subliminal sounds like
the pig squealing,

which is mixed into
the demon voice in places.

A fly that's caught in a bottle
with a microphone

stuck down there
that's in there.

I'm basically an old radio guy.

My earliest influence
was dramatic radio.

Everything was
in the imagination, everything,

and it was through not only
the human voice and music,

but through sound effects.

"The Exorcist" is
an experimental sound museum,

and so when I came into film,
I was very much drawn

to trying to continue
that kind of use of sound.

The demon voice was sculpted
out of various sounds

and the voice
of Mercedes McCambridge.

I had this friend from Chicago

that I used to work with
who was basically an announcer,

but he was a great experimenter
with sound.

His name was Ken Nordine.

Now, in this mound of think,

in my huge,
small individual love.

Mine, yours, anyone, anything so
related closer than any close,

so close that...

I called him and I said,

"Ken, can you create
a demon voice?"

And he experimented for months,

and I started to think,
"This -- This doesn't work.

Why doesn't it work?"

Well, it's the voice of a man,

no matter how
intentionally distorted, but...

it can't be
a woman's voice, either.

So I start to think,
"Is there anyone...

who sounds
both male and female?

Sort of neuter?"

It popped into my head

from the old days
of dramatic radio,

Mercedes McCambridge.

You heard her tell how

they're gonna run
the railroad through here,

bring in thousands of new people
from the east.

Farmers, dirt farmers,
squatters.

They'll push us out.

I show her the film
in rough cut...

without any sound,
with Linda Blair's voice.

What an excellent day
for an exorcism.

But wouldn't that
drive you out of Regan?

It would
bring us together.

You and Regan.

You and us.

She said,
"Do you know anything about me?

I was a practicing Catholic
from childhood,

then I became a suicidal drunk,
I went through AA,

and I can no longer
have a drink, even."

But she said, "In order to
do what you need me

to do with this voice,
I'm going to have to

put alcohol down my throat,
and I'm going to have to

several times a day
swallow raw eggs."

And she said, "I want you
to tie me to a chair like this,

and I will sit squatting
on the chair

so that I feel some actual pain,

and I will smoke again
and drink again.

But I want these two priests in
the room who are friends of mine

at all times
in the recording studio.

You'll have to give them
some money for their church.

And let's see what we can do.

Awful lot of smoke.

Awful lot of whiskey.

And we went
into a recording studio.

She'd finish a scene, go back
to the rear of the sound stage,

where her two priests sat,

and she would collapse
into their arms in tears.

She was saying lines like,

"Your mother sucks
cocks in hell, Karras."

Every single line
that you see in the film,

Linda Blair had to say.

It sounds a lot different
when it's coming out of

the mouth of
a 12-year-old, though.

How long are you planning
to stay in Regan?

Until she rots and lies
stinking in the earth.

She everything that
Linda Blair said.

Stick your cock up her ass,
you motherfucking

worthless cock sucker.

Be silent!

And sometimes she would
simply open her mouth

with a mic open like this.

But out of her throat would come
three or four different sounds

because of the booze
and the eggs and the smoke

in the way that John Coltrane
plays the saxophone,

where you hear three
or four notes at one time.

I had not used
the name Mercedes McCambridge

since I saw her in a movie
called "Giant", and again,

it was an inspiration,
a gift from God.

Images stick in my mind's eye.

I'll see something,
and it'll like go into

a mental file, and occasionally
I'll have use for it.

Most of my films
are realistic

because I've never been able
to tap into the surreal.

But the surreal is
what I admire the most.

Magritte is, to me, you know,
the greatest surrealist.

The first thing we filmed
with Max von Sydow

was in Georgetown,
where he arrives.

That shot came from
a painting by René Magritte.

It's called
"The Empire of Light."

There's a street
very similar to Prospect Street

in Georgetown.

It's a day light sky
over a night time street,

and this painting had
a profound effect on me,

and I decided
to put a figure in it.

Von Sydow, the priest.

And have the light from
the girl's bedroom shining

on him, which gave it
the surreal feeling

that the Magritte painting had.

It's remained forever the iconic
image of "The Exorcist."

I love the paintings
of Caravaggio,

you know,
which are mostly figures

set against a completely black
background, dramatically lit.

Many of them
are biblical scenes.

Most biblical paintings
of the Renaissance

will lay out everything
in the background.

Caravaggio didn't bother
to try to recreate

any of the scenes
from the Holy Land.

He just put the figures very
powerfully in the foreground.

His paintings are
strong, emotional, hard edged.

They force you
to look at the figures.

And they're almost like
Cartier-Bresson's photographs,

moments of truth that
he selected within these events

to highlight and isolate.

And so it's the way in which
he did these things

that I've often been able
to recreate to some extent,

not to his extent.

The light coming from one side,

powerful foreground figures,

and then either out of focus
or black background.

I will do that
often unconsciously.

And I know it's related
to my love of Caravaggio's

incredible figures.

Rembrandt's portraits
have influenced cinematographers

and directors forever,
since the beginning of film.

What he did basically
was take one source light,

so there's a very prominent
and powerful light

coming on a figure
from one source,

and the rest of the light
on the face

is a kind of a soft bounce light
from another surface

that is not as strong
as the hot source.

And occasionally
there'll be a bit of back light,

but it's not emphasized.

And that's the idea
of the way I've tried

to shoot faces and portraits.

Wherever I could control
the light within interiors,

we shot it that way.

Rembrandt basically created
a style of lighting

that still exists
and is still relevant.

I would go so far as to say
you could almost

throw everything else out,
even "The Mona Lisa."

I've also been influenced
by 17th century Dutch paintings,

in particular Vermeer.

The most powerful painting
I've ever seen

is Vermeer's "View of Delft."

It's just magnificent.

It's one of his few landscapes,

and it's just a group
of women on the shore

who are doing
their daily shopping

and now they're talking
to one another.

In the background
is the city of Delft,

which premieres slightly
rearranged in his picture,

as El Greco rearranged the view
of Toledo that he painted.

And there's a shaft of light

that hits the corner
of a building,

a little yellow spot
on the painting.

And the painting takes you
absolutely back to

17th century Delft.

You're there, you can
almost hear the conversations

if you give yourself to it.

Oh, it's such
an unexpected little thing.

I find that so simple and yet
so profoundly moving.

It's not just a dab of
reality at all.

It's a little grace note.

I certainly attempted to have

little grace notes
in "The Exorcist."

There's a shot in there
that's one of the most

beautiful shots
I've ever been involved with.

It's a shot of von Sydow
walking through a bazaar.

There were holes in the ceiling
where the sun poured in.

And I just thought,
"This is so beautiful,"

that I had von Sydow
walk through there.

The grace notes are what you
remember about any experience,

a person that you've met,

the things that we love
about the people we love,

or a moment in a novel
or in a movie.

"Citizen Kane"
is filled with grace notes.

Filled with grace notes.

Rosebud.

The story told
by Mr. Bernstein

to the reporter about
how he could remember

seeing a woman.

One day back in 1896,
I was crossing over

to Jersey on the ferry.

And as we pulled out,

there was another ferry
pulling in.

And on it, there was a girl
waiting to get off.

A white dress she had on.

And she was carrying
a white parasol.

And I only saw her
for one second.

She didn't see me at all.

But I'll bet a month
hasn't gone by since

that I haven't thought
of that girl.

That's a grace note that
tells you something profound

about the human experience.

We all have such things,

and they're much more important
than the larger events.

When Ellen Burstyn walks home
from the movie within the movie

that she's shooting,
you see two nuns walking,

and their wind just
takes their habits

and blows them
in kind of slow motion,

and she notices that moment.

She notices some children
running by in Halloween costume,

which is a kind of
quiet precursor

to what's to come --
children in disguise.

There's nothing in those scenes
that move the film

one inch forward,
but they're grace notes

that I tried to add to
the whole experience.

A routine I have
when I go to Chicago is

I'll walk down the street
to the Art Institute

and spend an hour or two
looking at the same paintings

over and over again.

To go back and look at these
paintings is like

visiting old friends.

The Monet collection
is unsurpassed,

especially "Morning on
the Seine near Giverny",

which is probably,
if I have such a thing,

it would be my favorite painting
in the world.

And it's nothing but
a very soft collage,

whites, blues, grays,

just harmoniously together,
nothing loud.

Everything in the painting
is soft, almost imperceptible.

It's a pure, quiet abstract.

It's like Ravel's music
or Debussy's music on a canvas,

especially the "Quartet in F"
by Maurice Ravel.

So there is a symbiosis for me
between art and music.

There are great quiet
sound effects

all over the movie,
and I didn't want the score

to drown them out,
so I didn't want a loud score

or a rhythmic score
or a boisterous score.

For the most part,
I don't like to cue the audience

on how they're supposed to feel.

I like them to find that out
for themselves.

There are exceptions to that,
like "Psycho",

where the score
tells you exactly how to feel

at all times, and it's great.

When I finished
editing the film,

I went to the great composer
Bernard Herrmann,

who was living in London then.

He had had a score rejected
by Alfred Hitchcock

and Herrmann left America
and moved to England,

became an expatriate.

Tell the cookie
she should put that down.

I screened the rough cut
of "The Exorcist"

for Bernard Herrmann.

He came out after the screening,
and he said,

"Well, I think I can save
this piece of shit

if you leave it with me,
and I'll mail you a score."

Get rid of that first scene
in the desert out there,

wherever the fuck you shot that.

You don't need that.

It doesn't mean
a goddamn thing."

And by now, I'm a little upset.

And I said, "Can I ask you,
what do you have in mind?

How would you score this?"

He said,
"Well, there's a church

somewhere outside of
greater London.

It's called
St Giles Cripplegate.

And they have
the greatest church organ

that I've ever heard.

The sound is magnificent."

And I said, "You want
to use a church organ

in 'The Exorcist'?"

Do you have any idea
why he wanted

a church organ?

Hell, no.

It seemed like a cliché to me,
and I knew I was talking

to the greatest composer
who ever lived.

I stood up and I said,

"Well, thank you for letting me
meet an interesting person."

And I left.

I didn't give a shit
if he was Bernard Herrmann

or Ludwig van Beethoven.

I was too close to that film
to give it to anybody

to add as key
an element as music.

This is one of the worst
disappointments of my life.

So I then took
the film back home,

and I started to use
what we call temp score.

I put existing music
that I had been listening to.

I was not looking to have
the score drive the movie.

I was looking
for a piece of music

that was like the cold hand
on the back of a neck.

And so I was listening to music
like Krzysztof Penderecki.

Polish composer.

Anton Webern, who wrote
the quietest music ever written,

a piece called
"Five Pieces for Orchestra",

in which the music
never rises above this level.

When I touch your forehead,
open your eyes.

He was a student
of Schoenberg,

sort of created
12 tone music or serial music,

which is not melodic
and often not even rhythmic.

I scored the film

primarily with recordings
of those pieces of music,

and I then took the film
with my choice of music

to a composer I had known called
Lalo Schifrin,

and I said, "Lalo, I want
the music to be a cold hand

on the back of your neck.

I don't want
anything loud or noisy

except maybe in a couple
of places just for accent.

Like where the little girl
shows writing on her chest."

He said, "I got it,
I've got it."

And I walk into the recording
studio at Warner Bros.,

and there's 80 or 90 musicians,
and they're all electrified,

and he plays the first cue
over the Iraqi desert.

And the music was blasting
and blaring and screaming.

And I had all these wonderful
sounds of the guys

digging from a distance
and from medium and close up.

And the music
wiped everything out.

It's a very complex
and interesting score,

but it was loud and rhythmic
and wrong.

And, um, I hated it!

I said, "Lalo,
this stuff is wrong.

Can you change it?"

And he said,
"No, I can't change it."

So I said, "It's over,
the session's over."

And he was
a good friend of mine,

and we haven't spoken since.

The music director of
Warner Bros. took the tracks

that I selected off 33 1/3 LPs
and had them re-recorded

in London by
a pick up orchestra.

That's what's in the film.

I still wanted something
that sounded like or vaguely

like Brahms' "Lullaby",
and it goes something like this.

I would listen to one piece
after another.

Needle drop out, needle drop,
two seconds, out.

10 seconds, out.

Hundreds of pieces
and up comes something called

"Tubular Bells"
by Mike Oldfield.

There's no label on it.
It was handwritten on a label.

It's not that unusual to have
a score done like that.

You have the opening
and incidental music of "2001."

"Thus Spake Zarathustra"

was conducted
by Herbert von Karajan

with the Vienna
Philharmonic Orchestra.

Those were existing
recordings that Kubrick used

after he had commissioned
a score by Alex North

and rejected.

And the score didn't match up
to the temp track,

as was the case with me.

All of those things,
the paintings and the music,

went a long way in influencing
how I made this film.

They all sort of creep
into your imagination,

which feeds your ideas
for a film.

I couldn't be a film director
if I was a skeptic.

I did not approach
"The Exorcist"

as a nonbeliever or a cynic.

I approached it
as a believer.

And to direct the film like
that, I had to separate myself

and my own emotions
from the act itself

and take the actors
into a mental environment

where they could separate
themselves from

what was being portrayed.

Blatty and I never talked about
a horror film

or effects in a horror film.

To me, it's more of
a chamber piece than spectacle.

Most of the stuff
takes place in one room,

in the little girl's bedroom.

We set out to tell this story

that deals with the mystery
of faith and good and evil,

both extreme sacrifice
and goodness and love.

Jesus Christ,
won't somebody help me?!

No, see, you don't understand.
Your daughter --

Could you help her?
Just help her!

As I sit here now
and talk about this film,

probably in the mind's eye
of the people watching this,

they're wondering, do I believe
that there is such a thing

as demonic possession?

I have no idea.
It's one of the mysteries.

Do you have any
religious beliefs?

- No.
- What about your daughter?

No. Why?

You ever heard
of exorcism?

Now, I filmed what purports
to be an actual possession

and exorcism
by the Vatican exorcist,

Father Gabriele Amorth.

What I saw was extremely
harrowing and convincing.

But do I know what this was?
No, I don't.

There are people who say,

"Well, I don't buy into
any of this stuff.

I don't believe in possession.
I don't believe in the devil."

But they're watching it,
you know?

The truth is none of us know
anything, Alexander.

We don't know anything.

From the greatest
thinkers and philosophers

the world has ever known,
from St. Augustine to

Stephen Hawking,
we don't know anything.

I'm sorry.You're sorry?!

Jesus Christ!

88 doctors, and all you
can tell me

with all of your
bullshit is...

All we know is we had nothing
to say about our birth,

we'll no doubt have nothing
to say about the time or place

or means by which we die.

Life is so ambiguous,
which is why my films are.

So much of our lives
take place in our mind's eye

and later could become
inseparable from reality.

Every one of us lives
with a separate reality.

So I leave the question open
for a long time in the film

as to, is a lot of this
what's actually happening

in the real world,
or is it the outcome of

an extremely unusual event

that takes place
in a different way

to the different
people involved?

Karras is the only character

who has seen and heard
that derelict earlier.

Father, could you help
an old altar boy?

I'm a Catholic.

One of the reasons
that people could be affected

by that brief scene
in the subway is the fact

that the voice of the derelict
comes up later in the room

from Regan's mouth.

As he's walking away
from her bed,

he hears that derelict's voice.

Can you help an old
altar boy, Father?

Or does he?

There's always the question.

In the same way
that you have the medal

appearing in Karras' dream
that was discovered

by Merrin in Iraq.

The idea of that scene
is symbiosis,

the idea that people are going
to be intricately involved

with one another at some point,

share images, share thoughts.

It's a St. Joseph medal
that's found in the cave.

The question is,
what is a St. Joseph medal

doing among all these artifacts
from centuries before?

And that's a question
I wanted to raise

in the way it's
raised in "2001."

We don't know to this day
what the obelisk is all about.

It appears at the dawn of man,

and then it appears
on Jupiter in 2001.

And then in the finale
of the film,

there's the obelisk again.

I thought it was genius using
a talisman in film like that,

but that's the sled
in "Citizen Kane."

What does all that stuff mean?

It's both obvious
and indecipherable.

I added these other shots
to the scene

that come out
of Merrin's experience

and enter Karras' dream.

The descending medal,

the St. Joseph medal
that was found in Iraq,

I added a barking dog
running towards the camera,

which is reminiscent
of the dogs in Iraq

that are barking around
the statue of Pazuzu

when Merrin confronts it.

The clock in Iraq that only
Merrin sees,

that Karras has never seen.

His mother emerging
from a subway kiosk.

There's a constant motif
of ascension in the film.

Which is certainly a reference
to Christianity.

Very subliminal.

If I hadn't mentioned it,
you might not notice it.

And she's screaming out
at him, "Dimi,"

which is what she called him.

His name was Damien.

You don't hear her voice.

And he is waving at her,
and he's shouting, "Mama, Mama."

But you don't hear his voice,

They're two separate cuts.

They're never in
the same frame together.

He sees his own mother
as she's descending

into a subway station, which is
telling him the possibility

that she's descending into hell.

Clearly a reference to the idea
that he was losing his mother

and couldn't prevent,
couldn't stop it.

Mama, it's Dimi, Mama.

Dimi.

Why would you do this
to me, Dimi?

Why?

Come on, I'm going to
take you out of here, Mama.

Mama, I'm going
to take you home.

I'm gonna take you out of
here tonight, Mama.

Mama, everything's gonna
be all right.

Mama, I'm gonna take you home.

Mama, I'm gonna
take you home!

That idea is the source
of his guilt.

Oh, Christ.

I should have been there.
I wasn't there.

I should have been there.

There was nothing
you could do.

His guilt that he devoted
his life to the priesthood

and not to his mother's health
or well-being.

- You killed your mother!
- On this your servant Regan --

You left her alone
to die!

- Shut up!
- She'll never forgive you!

That's the principal
source of his guilt,

so that when we meet him
in the film,

he is suffering this guilt
and is losing his faith.

I have felt that in my life
about my mother.

One of the things
that bonded Blatty and me

was a love of our mothers.

Bill has a tremendous --

had a tremendous love
and sense of loss

about his mother,

to whom he owes
a great deal of his success.

And I still have a tremendous
sense of loss about my mother.

And that's one of the things
that bonded us over this film

and its overall concept.

Karras is the target
of the demon,

not the little girl.

You're not my mother!

Don't listen.

Why, Dimi?

Damien.

- Dimi, please.
- Damien.

Get out.

The demon moves right in
and is trying to show Karras

that his faith is worthless,
useless, ineffective.

That's the purpose
of the entire possession.

And this is an act by the devil
to show the young priest

that human beings are disgusting
pieces of filth at bottom.

Even a young, innocent child
is nothing

but a disgusting piece of filth,
which is what the devil

wants us to think
about each other.

Why this girl?
Doesn't make sense.

I think the point
is to make us despair.

To see ourselves as...

animal and ugly.

To reject the possibility
that God could love us.

Open the door!

Do you know what she did?

Your cunting daughter.

Hitler believed that.

Stalin believed that.

Stalin killed 20 million
of his own people

'cause he believed
they were worthless.

How long are you planning
to stay in Regan?

Until she rots and lies
stinking in the earth.

Here's a wonderful scene
between Karras and the priest

played by an actual priest
named Father Birmingham.

I can't cut it anymore.

I need out. I'm unfit.

I think I've lost
my faith, Tom.

That scene is cross-cut
with what's happening to Regan.

He doesn't even call
his daughter on her birthday,

for Christ's sake.

Maybe the circuit
is busy.

Oh, circuits, my ass.
He doesn't give a shit.

And you see these two
disparate forces

slowly moving toward one another
as though magnetically.

The little girl who is being
victimized by the separation

of her parents and the anguish
of the mother.

And you see the priest,
who is losing his faith,

who is called upon to try
and help the little girl.

These three characters
are all going to come together

and mesh from separate worlds
drawn together by fate,

and that's what
it was designed to do,

and it was dictated to me by --
from another place.

I believe that we all have
such inexpressible,

unexplainable dreams that may
come from somewhere else,

that sometimes manifest
themselves as déjà vu.

There are so many images
and moments in life

that exist in some time warp
or in some other place

that are randomly selected
by somebody else.

We don't just dream
about stuff that's happened

or is happening to us.

We dream about things
from elsewhere

and where are they from?

And that is the most
important discovery I made

as a filmmaker,
that I could take

something from the life
of one character

and put it into
the dream life of another.

Well, suppose
you have a thought.

And suppose the thought is about
someone you're in tune with.

And then across
thousands of miles,

that person knows
what you're thinking about

and answers you,
and it's all mental.

I'm not that attracted
to ambiguity, but I do love it

when an audience has their
own interpretation of a film

that I've made or that
someone else has made.

And I've always believed
that what you bring to a film,

especially like "The Exorcist",
what you bring to it

is what you are going
to take away from it.

The end did not have
to be definitive,

but it had to be satisfying.

Many people look at the ending
of the film as ambiguous.

Many people think that
the the demon won,

that Karras and Merrin
are dead as a result

of the possession and exorcism.

That's not how I approached
the film,

and that isn't my belief.

No!

There's a wonderful
lyric by Bob Dylan --

"While preachers
preach of evil fates,

teachers teach that
knowledge waits.

But goodness stands
outside the gates.

And sometimes even the President
of the United States

must have to stand naked.

And if my thought dreams
could be seen,

they'd probably put my head
in a guillotine,

but it's all right, ma,
I'm only dyin'."

All of that is at play
in this last moment

of Karras' death.

Father Karras gives up
his life in his mind...

...for the life of this child
that he's never known at all.

He knew only the possessed girl,

and there's a great
feeling of sacrifice

that takes place in that moment,
much like Sydney Carton

in the end
of "A Tale of Two Cities."

It's a far, far better
thing I do

than I have ever done.

It's a far, far better rest
I go to than I have ever known.

The idea of
demonic possession and exorcism

is the idea that the priest
calls upon Jesus Christ

through this ritual
to exorcise the demon.

And the ending of "The Exorcist"

contradicts what
I've just told you.

It's heard
by Chris and Sharon

in another room in this novel.

Blatty wrote
this entire paragraph

in order to not deal
with the manner

in which Karras commits suicide.

We can't cut away.

We don't cut away from them
during the exorcism.

There's a break in it
where we see Chris sitting,

knitting something.

But during the exorcism,
there could be no cutaways.

And I said,
"Bill, what happened there?

He went out the window,
obviously. How?

Was he possessed?"

"No," Bill said.
"He wasn't possessed."

No, he made
the conscious decision

to take himself out the window

and killing himself
with the demon inside him.

But you're saying to me
you want the demon to be gone

when he goes out the window?

I said,
"But, Bill, that's suicide.

It's a sin
in the Catholic Church."

Suicide is a sin.

It was confusing then,
it's confusing now.

First of all, I find it
improbable that a character

could call upon the devil
to enter him or her.

The devil does what
the devil wants to do.

I'm Damien Karras.

And I'm the devil.

Now kindly
undo these straps.

If you're the devil, why not
make those straps disappear?

That's much too vulgar
a display of power, Karras.

Did you do that?

Ah-uhm...

Do it again.

- In time.
- No, now.

In time.

If you look at the scene
and analyze it,

the demon enters Karras

because Karras invites it
to come in,

and he's beating up
this little girl,

which is an evil act.

You specifically see
that he says...

Come into me!

Goddamn you, take me!

Take me!

Merrin would never do what
Karras does, had he lived.

Grab the demon and say,
"Take me, come in to me."

That was not
in Merrin's wheelhouse.

He's got his hands
around her throat,

as Blatty suggests in the novel,
and she rips

the St. Joseph medal
off of his neck.

Karras looks out the windows,

which are open, and the curtains
are blowing.

He sees the face of his mother.

It's a two or three frame cut,

which is not in the book,
which Blatty questioned,

but ultimately went along with,
with the idea

that perhaps he thinks
he's going to join his mother

in the afterlife.

And at that moment,
you see for a split second

his features change
and become demonic

and sees his hands about to go
around the little girl's neck

to strangle her to death,

which is probably
the demonic impulse.

And then they unchange.

The demon is not in him,

and specifically
at Blatty's request.

And most people don't see
or even get that

we go back to Karras as Karras.

I would have kept the demon
features on Karras throughout,

and Bill said, "No, you have to
go back to Karras' own features

in the act of yelling 'No'
so that he makes

the conscious decision to do it.

Otherwise, it's the demon
that has triumphed."

But it isn't even clear to me
as I sit here

why in the hell that happens.

I defy anybody watching this
to tell me

what they make of that scene,

if they really look at it
and study it.

Why the demon decides
to pay attention to Karras,

leave the little girl
and go into him is a question.

But then I believe
that the entire possession

of the little girl is directed
at Karras' weakness

and potential loss of faith.

Are we to say that he
regained his faith

in that final moment
with the demon?

That's what Blatty
is trying to say.

He confesses his sins
in the moment of his death

to his friend Father Dyer,

and is thus forgiven
in the Catholic faith.

But it is a sin.

I think if there's a weakness
in "The Exorcist", it's that.

I had no alternative,

so I shot it the way
he explained it to me.

The moment is a compromise.

It's not often as a director
that I've had to film something

that I didn't
completely understand.

In fact, but that's the only
instance I can give you.

To me, it's a flaw.

It's like scars
in fine leather.

Bill, who I love and respect
and love like a brother,

and he gave me
this magnificent work

that he wrote to realize
as a film,

but he was never able
to come to terms

with that penultimate moment
in "The Exorcist",

and neither was I.

I can't defend that scene.

Doesn't appear to have been
a problem

for the millions of people
who've seen the film.

They accept what we showed.

It asks for a total
leap of faith

on the part of the audience.

I went to Kyoto many years ago
when "The Exorcist" opened.

When you come in to Kyoto, it's
just another industrial city.

It looks like
Long Beach, California.

There's nothing of any note
until you get to

the Walled City,
which contains 11th century

and even earlier palaces
and homes.

And it's like a time capsule
of centuries ago.

And people had told me that
you must see the Zen garden.

Well, what the hell, I thought,
was the Zen garden?

I go there, and there's
a piece of land,

and it's a sea of combed sand.

And on it are several rocks.

Each of the rocks is placed
somewhere on this sea of sand.

And there's some benches around
it where people can sit down,

and they're there to contemplate
the Zen garden.

And I sat down.

There were maybe
only 20 people there.

They were very quiet.

And I thought, "What is this?

It's a bunch of rocks
placed on a sea of combed sand."

And now, if you give yourself
to it, this is what happened.

I'm looking at this thing

and trying to figure out
what is the attraction.

Why is it so famous?

Nobody knows when those rocks
were put there or by whom.

So that begins
to occupy your mind.

The next thing you realize
is these rocks

are like separate continents
that will never come together.

They will always live
separately like that.

Like the continents of Earth.

And then you begin to realize
they're also like people.

Like families living alone.

And then you start to realize

that this is human nature,
that we are all here alone.

No matter how close we are
to family or friends,

we are in this world alone.

And I wasn't there for --

it's happening to me now
just talking about it.

I wasn't there for 15 minutes
before I started to cry.

The tears started
to roll down my cheeks.

I was so profoundly moved
by this simple image

that indicated the separateness

with which all of us
live from each other.

It has moved me to this day.

I'll never forget
that experience of Kyoto.

And I'm anxious
to have it again.

It was probably over
40 years ago

that I've been there,
but there's not a day goes by

that I don't have images
of that experience.

You know, I've been
all over the world,

and the grace note for me
is the little Zen garden,

a garden of nothing
but combed sand and stone.