__EXT. NIGHT / ROOFTOP__
After having thrown all of his clothes from the rooftop, the man approaches the building's edge. The wind howls menacingly.
Sarah (off-screen) : DON'T JUMP, HARRY! PLEASE DON'T JUMP!
man turns around. He jumps.
Sarah : NOOOOO!
Sarah stares above, watching the thin man's body cascading towards her like a descending halo.
The nearby citizens are barely watching the disturbing spectacle. ''Another one'', they appear to think. Sarah is isolated in her panic.
Suddenly, in one swift, airsplitting motion, the man glides right above her and flies back up. Sarah's checkerboard hat and regal scarf hit the concrete. Large, dragonfly-like wings have erupted from the man's back during his fall.
he is now free.
Sarah : HARRY! HARRY!!!
Sarah watched uncomfortably as her best friend dissapeared into the city night.
Difficult and contrived, much like spinning into adulthood in a terminally fucked-up world can feel like. Lonergan has verve and social reviling to spare, and to watch almost none of his ideas cohere and yet crackle like very few other network narratives do nowadays gives the effect a really disturbing read. By its final pages, Margaret proves to have transcended its horrifying post-producting trials and landed on the street as a real shot to the heart to whoever has decided to remain on its wounded wings. Paquin is incredible, and so are Smith-Cameron and Berlin.
Built one hundred percent on the dreadfully unimaginative rise-and-fall biopic template, yet there's no denying its emotional wallop due to the sheer wonderfulness of the subject. Phoenix and Witherspoon play off each other with beauty, chemistry and depth, but little about their respective performances has the transportive power to make one label them as unforgettable.
The sole notable aspect of The Devil Inside is that it is far and away the least engaging, scary or satisfying shit-show in both the handheld horror and exorcism-gone-wrong craze. Seriously, movies don't get much worse than The Devil Inside.