The Devil Made Me Do It wasn't just a bad sequel—it was a betrayal. Wan's films breathed with patience, spatial awareness, and character. Chaves' version? A frantic, effects-driven courtroom-horror hybrid where the Warrens feel like guest stars in their own mythology. The iconic "clap" was replaced by CGI shadow monsters and a plot that made Annabelle Comes Home look like The Exorcist .
If James Wan is horror's architect, Michael Chaves is the guy who shows up late with a hammer and no blueprint. And the cracks are showing.
The core issue? Chaves directs at the audience, not with them. Wan builds dread through camera movement, silence, and frame composition. Chaves builds it through volume spikes and digital ghouls lunging at the lens. It's the difference between a haunted house and a haunted spreadsheet. michael chaves sucks
Michael Chaves doesn't "suck" because he's incompetent. He sucks because he represents everything corporate horror has become: risk-averse, over-reliant on IP, and terrified of silence. His films aren't crafted—they're assembled. And in a genre built on atmosphere, that's the real curse.
Chaves' The Curse of La Llorona (yes, he directed that) is the cinematic equivalent of a wet match. Flat performances, nonsensical lore, and jump scares so predictable you could set your watch by them. It's the kind of film that makes you miss when PG-13 horror at least tried to be clever ( The Ring , Lights Out ). The Devil Made Me Do It wasn't just
Chaves took a character with genuine iconographic power—Valak—and drowned her in exposition, murky lighting, and a school-setting retread that offered zero innovation. The scares aren't earned; they're scheduled. Every quiet moment exists only to count down to another loud noise and a pale face with black eyes. It's horror by checklist.
When James Wan handed the keys to The Conjuring franchise to Michael Chaves, fans braced for a new visionary. Instead, they got a journeyman who confuses volume with velocity, noise with nuance, and CGI contortions with genuine dread. And the cracks are showing
The Curse of Diminishing Returns: Why Michael Chaves Represents Horror's Laziest Era