"A CURSED MAN"

In a media landscape overflowing with sensationalist ghost hunts and neon-soaked exorcism specials, "A Cursed Man" dares to do something audacious—and far more outlandish. It steps away from spectacle and into something much murkier: the psychological and philosophical weight of belief itself. Liam Le Guillou’s documentary isn't just a flirtation with the occult—it’s a full-on existential gambit, one where the filmmaker becomes both observer and sacrificial subject.

At its core, "A Cursed Man" is built around a deceptively simple question: is magic real? But rather than approach this through second-hand testimony or armchair theorizing, Le Guillou does the unthinkable—he actively seeks out practitioners of dark magic and asks to be cursed. It’s a premise so audacious that it risks tipping into gimmickry, but what emerges is something far more layered: a meditation on how belief (or the fear of belief) can rewire a person’s reality.

From the outset, the film positions itself as an experiment, not a horror story. There's no gothic score, no CGI phantoms, no editing tricks to goose the audience into gasps. Instead, Le Guillou travels the globe—beginning in California, then onward to the spiritual maelstrom of New Orleans, the esoteric undercurrents of Mexico, and the deep ritualism of India. In each place, he not only documents the rites of those who believe in curses, but invites their consequences into his own life.

What’s clever—and quietly disturbing—is how little the film does to tell you what to believe. As cursed rituals unfold and the director begins to experience sleepless nights, strange dreams, and creeping paranoia, "A Cursed Man" resists the urge to validate these as supernatural. The question becomes not whether curses work, but whether the idea of being cursed is enough to alter perception, health, and even identity. Is it magic, or is it the brain’s immense capacity for self-deception? Is there even a difference?

Interspersed throughout are interviews with psychologists, anthropologists, and skeptics, offering a chorus of voices that neither debunk nor endorse what’s happening. These rational perspectives help anchor the narrative but also reveal the limits of scientific language when dealing with deeply personal, often culturally rooted experiences. A curse isn’t necessarily a spell with thunderbolts—it might be an inheritance, a diagnosis, a story passed down and internalised.

Le Guillou himself is a compelling presence, though he smartly never lets ego dominate the film. His vulnerability—both physical and emotional—is palpable, particularly as the “experiment” stretches on and the effects, whether real or imagined, begin to compound. He becomes a mirror for the audience: would you feel the same tightness in your chest after being told you've been hexed? Would your rationality hold firm, or would doubt begin to spread like mould in the corners of your thoughts?

The power of this daring gem lies not in offering answers, but in the questions it lodges like splinters beneath the skin. It invites audiences to wrestle with the paradox of faith: that something need not be true in an empirical sense to have real, even devastating, effects. It’s an uncomfortable truth, especially for viewers who pride themselves on skepticism. What if the mere act of entertaining a curse gives it power?

"A Cursed Man" is not a film about magic—it’s a film about the terrifying elasticity of the human mind. About how suggestion can birth conviction. About how belief can become both prison and protection. It will frustrate those looking for fireworks or finality, but for viewers willing to step into the fog and sit with ambiguity, it’s a haunting, singular experience.

7.5/10