One of the most haunting line readings in all of Magnolia, a movie full of them, comes when William H. Macy’s disgraced former child star painstakingly declares “I do have love to give, I just don’t know where to put it.” It’s devastating and ripe with pathos, but the structure of the sentence doesn’t even require the word ‘love’ as its anchoring subject. Try swapping it out for kindness, humor, money, you name it. The tragedy of holding onto an unplaceable asset until it curdles in your hands reads the same in any iteration, and Arkasha Stevenson has nothing if not talent to offer. After years of directing short films and tv episodes, no one could fault an aspiring filmmaker for taking a gig as an IP shepherd; what else was she going to do with all that prowess? It had to go somewhere, and found itself on the conveyor belt of Hollywood retreads, where it’s managed to find ample champions, leading to one of the more intriguing tests of cinephilic optimism we’ve had in a while. Should we be happy to see a new director shining in a darkened room, or be worried about just how much the lights have dimmed?

Her craftsman-made product, The First Omen, lays its scene in early 70s Rome, just a few short years before the events of the 1976 original, inside the walls of the Catholic-run Vizzardeli Orphanage. The newest member of the convent is Margaret Daino (Nell Tiger Free), a wide-eyed American import who almost immediately begins to feel an ambient malice running through the ranks of her fellow nuns and priests. Its ire is most frequently directed toward Carlita (Nicole Sorace), a gloomy pre-teen with a penchant for creepy drawings who might just be at the center of some sinister, clandestine operations. With Carlita under her wing and rogue priest Father Brennan (Ralph Ineson) at her side, Margaret works to unravel a mystery that, from the audience’s perspective, is hardly shrouded in doubt.

On the subject of those drawings, young Carlita had better hope no one is looking into legal action, because her original artwork sure looks awfully familiar. The ominous, charcoal-black sketches could just as easily have appeared in Smile, Midsommer, or Insidious, and while there’s no point in crying plagiarism in a genre intent on echoing within itself, they do point to a larger problem of reliance on familiarity. Already saddled with the itchy narrative contortions required of all prequels, The First Omen leans into visual and story cliches at a distressing rate, even recreating scenes from Richard Donner’s original for good measure. Though it’s impossible to be certain, their accumulation can’t help but feel like studio interference, with some big wigs in the back having scanned the data, providing a helpful list of moments that will play well in crowded auditoriums. 

Those same executives would have been better off scouting the release calendar, because Stevenson’s movie enters an unthinkably crowded marketplace. If the synopsis alone didn’t already make this clear, The First Omen is yet another 2024 horror release focused on female bodily autonomy, joining the ranks of Cuckoo, The Substance, Blink Twice, and, most damningly, Immaculate. The Sydney Sweeney vehicle is a perfect match with Omen on an almost molecular level, and while it would be difficult to argue that Immaculate is the better movie, sometimes being first is more powerful than being better.​ There’s also the moral quagmire of depicting sexual violence in a movie designed as a popcorn affair; it’s done tastefully enough, but deploying it as a means to restart a dormant franchise entertainment feels crass at best.

If the suits up top really find it necessary to invoke real world affronts just to make a quick buck, they’re at least considerate enough to hand Stevenson the wheel. Her conviction is never in doubt, and while one wishes that her interests and preoccupations could be filtered through a more inspired lens, you’re never left to question whether she’s taking things seriously. This is true of her investment in and affection for her female cast members, as well as the might of her image-making, which provides the movie’s half-hearted virtue signaling a sense of gravity. And she’s no slouch with the scares; while a shockingly visceral mid-movie set piece is likely to grab all the headlines, Stevenson’s brilliant balance of patience and gore leads to true-blue nightmare fuel, even if only in fits and starts. The First Omen certainly isn’t the year’s best fright flick, but its scariest bits stand up to anything else in a densely packed field.

She just has so much to fight against, from plodding tie-ins to a deeply silly script that’s sweating bullets to cosplay as something formidable and grave. For a movie so steeped in Christian iconography, there’s even a curious disinterest in anything spiritual, but that’s what you get when you force a square peg into a round hole. Despite anything she might say on the press junket, there’s simply no way this is Stevenson’s passion project, which makes for a mangled calling card. She’s clearly got skills to give, and The First Omen’s best segments have her putting them in all the right places, but it’s a depressing scenario to celebrate someone’s accomplishments by weighing them against a winless proposition. Let’s find them a better resting place.