By Jim Mcleod 
The Conjuring: Last Rites – A Welcome End to the Franchise?
One actor I’m a big fan of is Patrick Wilson. He’s had some tough roles to contend with in the past, from a suspected sexual predator in Hard Candy to a successful businessman who becomes addicted to using escort services from adult agencies in the movie Zipper. However, I’m not too sure whether he has overstayed his welcome with the seemingly endless Conjuring franchise.
I’ll be honest: the very second I clocked the title The Conjuring: Last Rites, a little thrill zipped through me. “Last” Rites, I thought. At last, we’re about to witness the grand finale of ghost-hunting hysteria! Surely the Warrens will finally hang up their holy-water flasks, kiss their worn-out crucifixes goodbye, and retire to a peaceful barn in Devon—far from slamming doors, spectral nuns, and energy-guzzling candle-lit séance sets. Alas, optimism is a tragic flaw.
From the trailers (which I’ve easily watched 37 times), I’m already bracing myself. The Warrens are coaxed out of semi-retirement—maybe they were just about to start a knitting club or take up gardening—because, heaven forbid, a poor family buys a house with more haunted history than the Tower of London. Ed looks windier than a hangover after a bank holiday, and Lorraine’s having visions again, like she’s spotted a particularly nasty Stilton that she just can’t ignore. Together they’ll stand firm in the face of spooks, rosaries in hand, looking like they desperately need a double espresso.
From what I’ve glimpsed, Last Rites, which is said to be based on true events, promises the full horror-cliché buffet. Expect taunting whispers, doors slamming at—you guessed it—3 a.m., and furniture doing its best impression of a Jenga tower mid-quake. I half hope one of the ghosts will pause to adjust its sheet like it’s accidentally wandered onto a fancy-dress set. Yet there’s a certain comfort in seeing the same dusty tropes again—like slipping into a well-worn jumper that’s seen better days, but does the job nonetheless, even if it’s a bit moth-eaten.
Then there’s the inevitable showdown hinted at in the promos: holy water arcing like it’s auditioning for an Olympic sport, Latin chanted with all the spirit of schoolchildren bribed by sweets, and possibly yet another demon who’s got the personality of a soggy biscuit. I can’t help but smirk as I imagine what’s to come—essentially the same film, four times over, but with fresh lighting and perhaps a spookier wallpaper pattern.
And yet—whisper it—despite my cynicism, I’m looking forward to it. The trailers have that guilty-pleasure allure. It’s like ordering fish and chips from your favourite greasy spoon at 2 a.m. You know you’ll regret it in the morning, but you wouldn’t miss it for the world.
My unofficial, pre-release judgement? The Conjuring: Last Rites doesn’t look like the swan song of horror franchises—it’s more a boozy encore from a pub singer who isn’t quite done, but who still ducks the high notes. For fans, it’s that familiar, slightly daft encore you’ll happily sing along to—especially when the house lights finally go down. And if by some miracle it is the last, I’ll raise a glass to the Warrens, thank them for the jump-scares, and quietly prepare myself for the inevitable spin-off: The Nun 3: Nun Harder.
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