Muses, Muses Where Art Thou?
I thought I saw Emily Rose, in her most gorily contorted pose, on the floor right before me when I woke up this morning. If you've seen “The Exorcism of Emily Rose,” as I have, in a most ungodly hour of 1.35 am, you’d know that it’s not exactly a nice image to start your day with.
Emily with her limbs knotted in weird angles, her head bizarrely twisted skywards, her eyes glazed like oversize prunes and an otherworldly expression stamped on her menacing face. I’m not one to scare easily but that particular image is something that has managed to lodge itself in my subconscious.
The movie is not something I would classify as a horror flick, though. It is primarily a courtroom drama, a fascinatingly intellectual one if I may add, that which attempts to explain the bizarre circumstances that surround her horrific death. Could she had been possessed by a demonic force that eventually wore down her mortal body or did she merely suffer from epileptic psychosis albeit one of an intensity previously unheard of?
I personally think that Emily Rose was neither psychotic nor possessed. She was simply an automatic yogic I mean, hello? Those postures are like the unhallowed version of the more complex yoga postures. And if there’s such a thing as automatic writing then I don’t see why there shouldn't be automatic yoga. God. The muses have left the building. Maybe for good.
