Ray Richmond: William Friedkin’s ‘The Exorcist’ was more than a horror film. It was a cultural sensation – and I was there

Ray Richmond
·8 min read
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The death at 87 of the great director William Friedkin on Monday reminded me of one of the two most intense movie viewing experiences I’ve ever had in a theater. One came last year when I saw “RRR,” which due to its massive audience participation at the Chinese Theatre was a spectacular happening.

The other one happened in 1973 when I was a wee lad of 16, when I saw “The Exorcist.”

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Friedkin was a master of his craft who made several other memorable films, chiefly “The French Connection” (for which he won his Academy Award), “Cruising,” “The Boys in the Band” and “To Live and Die in L.A.” But for my money, nothing he did could ever equal the phenomenon he helmed into being with “The Exorcist,” which would earn Oscars for sound and William Peter Blatty’s adapted screenplay as well as a directing nomination for Friedkin.

But forget all of the awards stuff for a moment. At least equally consequential was the brilliant marketing/promo and seemingly grassroots word of mouth that transformed “The Exorcist” into something akin to a religious experience – and by “religious,” I mean one generated in hell, complete with mass hysteria. I’d found out about the movie that December, just before our winter break. My friends in high school were all talking about it, wondering if I was going to go see “that devil movie.” Rumors began to spread that people on the set had gotten sick and been possessed by demons during filming. I got interested enough to try to start reading about it, which meant listening to the news on the radio and buying print newspapers and magazines in that neanderthal period before the internet and social media transformed the game so radically.

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“No seriously, people are getting into fistfights for trying to jump the line and starting fires outside and stuff,” my best friend Luiggi Pombar marveled. “We’ve got to see this thing, man. It’s supposed to be the scariest thing ever.”

The legend continued to build. Word came down that “The Exorcist” was so intense at the early screenings that people were vomiting at their seats and fainting into the aisles at the sight of a possessed young girl (actually actress Linda Blair) doing a 360 with her head and projectile puking green slime. Supposedly, a pregnant woman was so disturbed by the graphic material that she miscarried. Even though I liked to call myself a daredevil (“devil” being the operative word here), I had to admit to myself I was scared to go. This sounded serious. People throwing punches outside and in need of resuscitation inside. More like a survival test than a movie. Not exactly a popcorn flick, unless you want the popcorn to wind up all over your shirt and lap.

I shared my trepidation with Luiggi, but he was having none of it.

“What, are you crazy?” he asked. “This is why we go to the movies. Adventure, man. I’m going. And you’re coming with me.”

Well, I couldn’t turn down Luiggi. For one thing, he was bigger than me. Louder, too. So we tripped on down to the National Theater in Westwood on January 6, 1974. Yes, I remember the specific date. We committed to get to the theater at 9 a.m. for a 3 p.m. screening, figuring six hours early was sufficient time to get us a prime spot at or near the front of the line. Wrong! This was the second weekend of “The Exorcist’s” release, a Sunday, and the line was down the block. We were line members number 147 and 148. I went and counted. Don’t ask me how I remember this random info, but I do.

We were assured by the security guards protecting the line (yes, the line needed protection) that there were more than enough seats for us to get into the 3 o’clock – that is, if we could find an adult or two who would vouch that two 16-year-old punks were with them. It was an R-rated film, so we had to tag along with grown-ups to gain admittance. Fortunately, the sweet couple in front of us said we could be with them – assuming we survived the six hours, which was no guarantee.

Scuffles constantly broke out during our wait. Someone thought it would be funny to pass out Dixie cups of pea soup to get everyone in the mood. I passed. Two young guys who tried to sneak into the line in front of me were actually tackled, handcuffed and led away. This was serious business.

The interminable wait finally over, Luiggi and I paid out $3.50 each and took our seats in the middle of the cavernous theater, positively bouncing up and down with anticipation. Every seat was filled, including in the front row. You could feel the tension rising in the theater as the anticipation grabbed everyone by the throat. I think I even saw a twinkle of fear in Luigi’s eyes.

When the trailers concluded and the film’s chilling “Tubular Bells” theme started to play, people in the audience squealed a mix of excitement and abject fear. As the suspense built, the response of the moviegoers surprised me. People weren’t screaming but laughing, another way to let off nervous steam perhaps. No one was laughing louder than a young woman of maybe 25 who was sitting beside me with a girlfriend about the same age. She and her friend kept covering their mouths and bending over to try to suppress whatever ya-yas they had going on inside them. The women were so gymnastic and animated that I found myself watching them as much as the movie.

Then came the moment when Regan (Blair) did her projectile vomit thing. This woman sitting beside me actually stood up, raised her arms, screamed, leaned over…and vomited straight into my popcorn box, coating what remained of my snack. I was nonetheless somewhat grateful that she had such good aim or it could have wound up all over my clothes, possibly my face and hair, too. The vomiting act seemed to knock the woman somewhat out of her stupor. She covered her mouth (too late) and and looked me straight in the eye, mortified, saying, “Oh God, I am SO sorry.”

“It’s OK,” I assured her, “I wasn’t hungry anyway.”

I accepted her apology, but we now found ourselves surrounded by chaos. Full rows of people were clutching their face and screaming, full-out howls. A few people did indeed seem to pass out briefly in the aisle. Whether it was the power of suggestion or something else, I couldn’t say. But ushers were called over to administer smelling salts, I swear. Others walked out in the middle of “The Exorcist” and never returned. But I’ve never been in a movie theater, before or since, that carried nearly the same sense of high-octane intensity and mayhem. It was like a Rolling Stones concert, if the Stones were demons.

As Luiggi and I left the theater, we felt utterly spent, if simultaneously kind of drunk. It was a form of euphoria borne of surviving what felt like an out-of-body experience. Some of it can be explained as reaction to the significant hype that drove us to the theater in the first place. But it was more than that. It was the communal experience of being stimulated by a piece of entertainment so bracing and extraordinary that it seemingly made all your senses fire on overdrive. If that sounds hyperbolic, well, come on, I was a teenager, and this was “The Exorcist.”

The film would go on to haul in $233 million domestic – the equivalent of well over $1 billion in today’s dollars – and generate 10 Oscar nominations (winning the aforementioned two). It would also instantly become a colossal credit for all involved, from players Ellen Burstyn, Jason Miller, Max von Sydow and young Linda Blair to Blatty and Friedkin. It’s still the scariest movie I’ve ever seen, and a lot of that can be credited to Friedkin’s superb work.

I fell out of touch with Luiggi – I mean, it’s been nearly 50 years – but the memory of that day will never fade. Thanks, Billy.

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