That’s because Daniela, fixated on the growing legend of the Warrens, can’t resist going into the ghost museum and poking around. But on a night when the Warrens’ 10-year daughter, Judy (McKenna Grace), is at home with her two high-school babysitters, the saintly blonde Marcia Brady-like Mary Ellen (Madison Iseman) and the sneaky dark Nancy-Allen-in-“Carrie”-like Daniela (Katie Sarife), all hell breaks loose. She’s locked up in there so that she can’t do her mischief. Its centerpiece is the case of sacred glass, taken from a church, in which Annabelle resides. It’s like a museum of ghoulish bric-a-brac, and though it’s right there on the ground floor, in what might have been a sprawling extra bedroom, it functions in the film like the basement you’re not supposed to go into. They’ve got a room in their home stuffed with all the occult artifacts they’ve gathered from their adventures. But they’re on hand to set up “Annabelle Comes Home,” a haunted-house thriller that takes place almost entirely in their roomy dark-shadowed suburban home, which is done up in conflicting patterns of floral wallpaper and a muted rainbow of gloomy autumnal ’70s colors.Įd, who’s played by Wilson as the Pat Boone of exorcists, and Lorraine, embodied by Farmiga with a righteous tenderness, have been at their paranormal investigations for a while now, and are generating some headlines. The “Annabelle” films are prequels spun off from the “Conjuring” universe, and the first sure sign that they were second tier is that Patrick Wilson and Vera Farmiga, as the fretfully eager true-life Christian devil busters Ed and Lorraine Warren, didn’t even make an appearance in the first two movies. These are “religious” horror movies for people who would channel surf through the Devil himself. But mostly she’s the film’s emblem, the hood ornament of its Amityville 3.0 brand, and if you take her out of the equation, which isn’t hard to do (since, conduit qualities aside, she’s barely in the equation), you’re left with one more ADD mashup of a haunted-house thriller and “The Exorcist,” which is the anything-goes formula of the “Conjuring” films.
She’s the conduit, all right, and the mascot, and the source of all the trouble. The grand result of all this cheesy metaphysical heavy lifting is that “Annabelle Comes Home” is a relentless but awkward throw-everything-at-the-viewer occult thriller that mixes ghosts, looming spirits, and - yes - inanimate objects coming to life, with the figure of Annabelle not so much at the scary center of the action as existing alongside it. Do you care? I think I couldn’t care less. Do you get the distinction? I actually think I do. She’s channeling the spirits around her, acting as a lightning rod for evil. “It was used as a conduit!” What this means is that Annabelle, even though she’s portrayed as a dark and dangerous devil doll, isn’t coming to life. No way! “The doll was never possessed,” a character declares. But the film’s annoyingly arcane premise demands that the audience understand that Annabelle is not, herself, possessed. If this movie had been made several decades ago, Annabelle would likely have been a female Chucky, a demon figurine wreaking violent havoc. In her bangs and red-bowed pigtails, with a sallow face marked by sunken but popping eyes, bloody scratches, and a ripe smile, she bears a marked resemblance to the ventriloquist dummy in the 1978 Anthony Hopkins psycho thriller “Magic.” That fixed grin of hers promises a great deal of mischief, and “Annabelle Comes Home,” in its almost completely haphazard and what-the-hell-let’s-go-to-hell way, delivers it. Annabelle is one of those creepy Victorian dolls that has been a staple of horror films for decades. There’s a comparable bit of pesky Talmudic niggling woven into the premise of the “Annabelle” films, of which “ Annabelle Comes Home” is the third, and maybe the most hyper and generic. I learned my lesson, even though a stubborn part of me still thinks, “If it walks like a zombie, and talks like a zombie…”
In a review of a horror movie, I once called a character a zombie who was not, technically, a zombie (he didn’t have the precise credentials to be classified as the living dead), and tons of readers called me out on it.
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In a country that should probably think about renaming itself the American Entertainment State, fan culture now produces an obsessive level of pop scholasticism, one that can parse the rules and details of movies and TV shows as if they were fine points of law.
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