Hugh Grant is in his villain era, playing against his Noughties romcom type in Dungeons and Dragons, Paddington 2, Wonka (OK, oompa-loompas aren’t technically bad guys, but they do really creep me out) and now in his first horror, Heretic. But this is a revolution of setting, not acting. The Hugh Grant tormenting teenage missionaries in his rural, labyrinthine lair (perhaps he always had it in him: the iniquitous Daniel Cleaver’s last name was Cleaver, for God’s sake) is the same Hugh Grant we’ve long known: a bashful shrug, a disarming smile; fast-talking, sheepish, endearingly peculiar. Heretic draws all its power from this fact.
Grant is Mr Reed, an ageing man in a granddad cardie and Jeffrey Dahmer specs, who has requested a visit from the Mormon missionaries because yes, actually, he would like to learn more about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and Heavenly Father’s plan for his salvation. As sisters Paxton (Chloe East, The Fabelmans) and Barnes (Sophie Thatcher, Yellowjackets), making one last visit after a day of not-so-warm receptions, lock their bikes to the railings at the front of Reed’s Hansel and Gretel cottage, the skies darken and it begins to rain.
They explain to Reed that they are not allowed to enter the house unless there is another woman present, to which he reassures them that his wife is home, and just happens to be baking a blueberry pie. He ushers the sisters into a chintzy lounge complete with “bless this mess” cross-stitch, takes their coats (pocketed bike lock key and all), and the door swings shut – unbeknownst to them, it deadbolts on a timer that won’t allow it to open again until morning.
The first half of Heretic is a masterfully tense game of verbal? cat-and-mouse. Reed proves endlessly changeful, by turns testy and avuncular. He is not interested in hearing their well-rehearsed patter, but instead wishes to debate particular points of theology, forcing gear change after gear change. At one point he invites Paxton to rap out a drum-roll in anticipation of a question, which she does leaning back on the sofa, on her stomach, giggling: “How do you feel about polygamy?” Funny, yes, but disquieting too. Reed is a warm host, painfully polite and constantly stressing his desire that they be at ease, that they are free to leave at any time, even as it increasingly dawns on the sisters that this is far from the truth: there is no wife, no pie, and no way out.
Reed seeks to challenge their belief that theirs is the one true God, using the boardgame Monopoly, the Radiohead song “Creep” and an impression of Jar Jar Binks, among other exhibits, to demonstrate that everything is simply an iteration of what came before it. He rattles through this pseudo-intellectual rollercoaster with litheness and a keen sense of drama that put me in mind of David Suchet’s Poirot, leading his gathered suspects to the moment of revelation. Heretic is a remarkably talky film given it was written and directed by Scott Beck and Bryan Woods, best known for the decidedly non-talky A Quiet Place, and its war of words is an agile delight.
But, after a taut and wildly unpredictable hour, Heretic collapses under the weight of its own anticipation. Its endgame is preposterous, and ultimately limp. There is precious little gore and far too few things that go bump in the night. Proceedings are elevated by cinematography from Chung-hoon Chung (best known for his work on Park Chan-wook masterpieces such as Oldboy and The Handmaiden), but there’s only so much he can do with women running up and down staircases.
The true enjoyment here is all in the performances: Thatcher’s Sister Barnes is the more worldly of the two, and the more willing to countenance the uncertainty of faith; East’s Sister Paxton is by comparison neat, square, credulous, but proves unexpectedly steely in the face of terror. And, of course, there’s Grant, who is having a palpably tremendous amount of fun with it all. Beguiling, capricious, too far gone in his search for the truth to have any use for conventional morality, quick with a smile, he is the consummate serial killer. He would apologise wincingly, and you would reply, “It’s no problem at all,” even as he slashed your throat.
“Heretic” is in cinemas now
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