Horror fans are recently and rightfully talking about Nicolas Cage in Renfield as the over-the-top character actor to beat, but don’t discredit Russell Crowe in The Pope’s Exorcist. He plays Rome’s Chief Exorcist with an Italian accent cracked from a can of Chef Boyardee in a ridiculous possession movie that tries to be everything from The Exorcist to Men in Black, with barely mixed results. Director Julius Avery indulges the freakier elements of demonic overtakings with a B-movie sensibility, much like how he turned the massively enjoyable Overlord into a freakish WWII monster mash – there’s just much less excitement this time. This approach hits almost as much as it misses, but at least when scenes work, The Pope’s Exorcist is an unintentional horror-comedy that doesn’t try to be anything other than an aggression-forward religious nightmare that taunts saints and torments sinners.

For as exceptionally corny and stereotypical Crowe’s performance can be, there’s an enjoyable indulgence as his character, Father Gabriele Amorth, tries to save an innocent boy from a demon’s grasp. Amorth belittles peer reviewers who dare question his sometimes archaic methods, chugs alcohol from elegant flasks like he’s dying of thirst, and tosses around decomposed human heads as lighthearted dark humor. Crowe plays Amorth like some larger-than-life Vatican superagent and leans comically heavily into Italian – even when supporting characters speak English. Daniel Zovatto, as sidekick Father Esquibel, merely grasps onto Crowe’s robe for dear life as he tries to keep up, while Crowe chews through scenery like extra-cured slices of prosciutto – or drives through it on his adorable lil’ Vespa, a sight that’s worth price of admission on its own.

The blasphemous case that unfolds is adapted from the real Father Gabriele Amorth’s memoirs – that’s right, he existed – and adheres to all of the expectations you probably have about an exorcism story. Single mother Julia (Alex Essoe) moves her rebellious teen Amy (Laurel Marsden) and traumatized mute son Henry (Peter DeSouza-Feighoney) into a spooky historical castle-type house under renovation, a cobwebby residence that’s dripping with haunted atmosphere. The Pope’s Exorcist doesn’t waste time before leaving Julia’s family alone and unprotected, letting wee Henry’s possessed form speak despicable lines as soon as possible. He’s groping his mother’s breasts and cackling past rotten teeth before you can finish your Hail Marys, as writers favor incest discomfort, vulgar language, and all the typical calling cards of Satan’s army to beckon the take-no-gruff Amorth like a challenge.

What delights about The Pope’s Exorcist, and what Avery emphasizes, is how we’re not spending the full hour and 43 minutes stuck inside a child’s bedroom as necks corkscrews around or someone spits up pea soup. There’s an unwieldiness about the story that introduces Catholic conspiracies for Amorth and Esquibel to investigate in bone-lined catacombs with secret chambers – like National Treasure except holier. You’ll see fiery explosions, bodies pop like bloody water balloons, and keys removed from the clutches of decomposed corpses – all ways that Avery strives to prevent The Pope’s Exorcist from being just another exorcism copycat. It’s just too ambitious at times, and the theology-driven story continues veering in more and more out-of-control directions, like how this past January’s similarly absurdist The Devil Conspiracy refuses to be another version of the humdrum holy war you’ve seen before.