The following is a review of the 2024 film Heretic. The review contains light spoilers, but the heavy ones are placed in the endnotes so as to not ruin the film. (You can also listen to the Sunstone Podcast review of Heretic here: Spotify, Apple, Sunstone.)

A preamble:

Dear Father in Heaven, thank you for my blessings and thank you for good art.

Good art is like the promise of our baptism and the gift of the Holy Spirit—it lights up the soul and burns with the power of rightness. And that’s exactly what the recent film Heretic did. It’s good art. And if I’m honest, I’ve been nervous to watch it because I knew it would stoke a little hell-fire in me.

Mormon representation on screen does that to all the Mormons I know. We are a community of people that really believe we should have a say in things that include us. Given our history, we’ve a pattern of being somewhat … territorial.[i] When that representation makes it to the big screen, it triggers our emotions and opens up old wounds.

I knew going in that I’d have to be aware of that impulse. Now after I’ve seen the film, I know exactly what levers it pulled at, and to be honest, most of mine are rooted in sin.

It’s okay. As a Mormon woman, I know my way around a confession, the guilt already softening the words as they leave my lips.

Forgive me, ancestors, for I have been ensnared by the chains of pleasure, pride, and movie-theater pickles. I enjoyed the film so much that envy has crept around me like flaxen cords, binding me with jealousy—that I didn’t write Heretic. It’s so brilliant, so incisively true, that I wish I’d thought of it first.

Damn y’all.

For a decade, I’ve been honing my craft, striving to tell Mormon stories that pierce the heart of our identity, that unveil our myths and hold them to the light. I’m deeply proud of the work I’ve done and profoundly grateful for the opportunities I’ve been given. Scaling my life’s passion to this level is nothing short of a dream, and I have no complaints. But I share this perspective to lend weight to my thesis. Over the past few years, I’ve come to understand just how elusive that piercing narrative truth can be: the kind that cuts through the noise and lands with precision. It’s so often lost in the maze of the Hollywood industrial complex—far harder to capture than most realize.

And it’s not like we make it easy for folks. Mormons are historically protective of how our narratives are told, constantly engaged in a holy war about how to frame our virtues and the excesses of our past. We’re really tangled up about artistic legitimacy being linked to a one, true depiction. But I believe Mormons’ loyalty to this kind of purity gets in the way of our taking the kind of risks good art sometimes requires. We’re not doing ourselves any favors when we limit our rubric to exact obedience.

I saw a critique of Heretic claiming it was inaccurate because the mission leader didn’t have a companion, and another noted the sister missionaries’ last names (Barnes and Paxton) weren’t “Mormon enough.” These critiques are distractions treated like cockroaches in our ice cream; they focus on small details that poison the whole.

But Art works differently than Mormonads. Perhaps it’s because we struggle to confront the real bugs and poison in our history—the elements that truly taint the story—so we project that discomfort onto minor, superficial inaccuracies in our depictions.

Details in media serve a purpose. Sometimes they are utilitarian, shaped by creative constraints like time, budget, or storytelling priorities. Real estate in a script is precious, and writers make deliberate choices to balance narrative flow and audience engagement. When a detail pulls us out of the story, it can be a reflection of our own biases or triggers, not necessarily a flaw in the story itself. The real question is: does it change the narrative?

As viewers, Mormons of all people should understand Hollywood’s impulse to maximize efficiency and profit—after all, capitalism is practically a cornerstone of our culture. But this capitalist instinct in storytelling sometimes feeds our own anxieties, making us fixate on details that aren’t “pure” or “resurrected” representations of our community. This boundary maintenance often lures us into the brambles, distracting us from the larger narrative at hand.

And yet …

Two non-Mormon writers just gave us a sermon on Mormon representation in Heretic, carving a truth so sharp it feels like it belongs to all of us.

As Carl Jung reminds us, “there are some things to which the ego must bow.” So here I am, bowing before the brilliance of a story that I’m so glad exists.

My Review:

Some films linger with you, haunting not just your thoughts but the quiet spaces between them. This one does so with an artistry and intelligence that is as disarming as it is devastating. From the very first scene, it was clear this wasn’t your typical horror fare. Where others might lunge straight for the jugular, with violence for pacing, this film wielded something subtler, smarter. It started with a hilarious tableau of sex and innocence, playfully invoking the Madonna-whore dichotomy—a long-running joke that Mormon women are often the punchline for.[ii] The film wants you to underestimate these women with a jumpgrab that announces: pay attention; we’re doing something different here.

The writing? Absolute chef’s kiss. The acting? Unflinchingly brilliant. The Mormon representation? #goals. Spot-on in a way that felt reverent and authentic, even as it interrogated the very foundation of belief. When that Moroni joke landed early on, I knew we were in good hands.[iii] It’s the kind of accuracy I strive for in projects I’m working on—accuracy that isn’t just surface-deep but steeped in an understanding of the culture’s soul.

Sophie Thatcher’s performance has deservedly dominated the conversation—her portrayal of the skeptic brimming with tension and raw humanity. But for me, it was Chloe East’s character, Sister Paxton, that unearthed something primal and tender.[iv] In her, I saw myself—or at least the self shaped by Mormon womanhood. From the outset, she exudes a kind of earnestness that’s so often mistaken for naïveté. Yet as the film unfolds, it becomes achingly clear that her innocence is not a lack of intelligence but a learned affect, a survival mechanism in a system that perpetually positions women as both sacred and suspect. Her choices—often misread as foolish—are acts of self-preservation.

There is something profoundly true in how the film captures the pressures Mormon women face. Modesty culture is not, at its core, about fabric or skin; it’s about fear. It’s about teaching girls to navigate a world where men are threats and then blaming them for the danger. Cover up, the system says, or you’ll get hurt. Chloe’s people-pleasing, her hesitance to disrupt, feels like the survival instinct of a thousand generations of women trying to carve safety out of a patriarchal labyrinth.

The dialogue’s exploration of intuition in the face of danger was another revelation. As women, we are taught to second-guess our instincts, to smile when we should scream, to accommodate when we should flee.[v] Yet this film refuses to punish its characters for trusting those instincts. Instead, it builds a narrative where intuition becomes not just a weapon but a salvation, as vital as faith itself.

The faith dynamic was another layer of brilliance. This was a story that began by dismantling belief and ended with miracles—a narrative arc that felt, in some ways, like a sermon. The film dared to affirm faith in a way that was complex, neither cynical nor naive. It left me asking myself: If I were Sister Paxton (Chloe East), would I stay in the church after witnessing such a miracle? Perhaps. But faith is rarely that simple, and this film knew that too.

Hugh Grant’s performance, though exceptional, left me wanting a touch more menace. As a woman in discussions of faith, I’ve met many Mr. Reeds—men eager to “enlighten” me on cosmic mysteries they assume I’m too simple to grasp. There was an opportunity to lean further into the specific kind of creepiness women recognize all too well—charm as weapon, control disguised as benevolence. Yet even without that edge, the film’s critique of patriarchal power within religious systems was scathing and incisive. Grant’s character wasn’t just a man; he was an archetype—a god, a gatekeeper, a warning.

I found myself agreeing with Taylor Petrey’s observation that the film is an inverted endowment ceremony, with Grant playing God and the women descending through degrees of hell. That they ended with veiled women, a potent symbol of both sanctity and silencing, felt like a stroke of brilliance—an understanding of Mormonism’s imagery so sharp it was almost unnerving. How did non-Mormons write this so well? Their homework wasn’t just thorough; it was revelatory, forcing us to ask—can we ever truly see ourselves, or does it take the eyes of an outsider to reveal who we are?

And yet, unlike so many horror films—and much of Hollywood—this film didn’t simply mine the reflection of Mormon trauma for entertainment, leaving our community to bear the real-world consequences. It didn’t just resist the voyeurism that often accompanies women’s suffering on screen. Instead, the thoughtful writing transmuted pain to reclamation. Yes, it was terrifying—watching women navigate a system designed to consume them always is—but it was also cathartic. The terror felt essential, not exploitative, because it was grounded in truth. An arc we can work with in our own lives—one that says: trust in who you are and where you came from.

Perhaps I experienced this differently than others in the theater. Proximity shapes perspective, and as a Mormon woman, I couldn’t help but see myself, my community, my history woven into every frame. But the audience’s collective engagement spoke volumes about the film’s power. It didn’t matter if you understood the nuances of Mormon theology or not; the story resonated because it tapped into something universal—faith, fear, resilience.

Latter-day Saints, whose community is built on complex and often conflicting narratives, should appreciate how the filmmakers used fiction to call on truth. Yet, Mormons and ex-Mormons alike often resist viewing their stories as material for fiction, insisting they must be either entirely true or entirely false—when, in reality, the truth of Mormon narratives is far more nuanced. This film gave us both, by placing characters who rang true, in fictional situations.

More than that, Heretic was a testament to the importance of involving people from the community being represented. The two actors who played the sister missionaries have a Mormon background, and it shows.[vi] Their presence points the film’s algorithm to truth. My hope is that this sets a precedent, that more creators will recognize the wealth of talent within marginalized communities and collaborate with them to tell stories that are rich, real, and resonant.

Too often, projects exploit Mormonism for its pain, telling our stories without care for the impact or the communities they depict. This film felt different.[vii] It engaged with the struggles and harms at the heart of our experiences, but it did so with purpose and respect. It wasn’t just entertainment—it was a thoughtful resistance to the very systems and dynamics it portrayed. In the end, I walked away deeply impressed by its craft and courage. This was a film that tackled big, complicated ideas with clarity and intention, leaving the audience with not just a story but a sense of meaningful reflection and connection.

While most filmmakers aim for the stars, Heretic dares something far more celestial:[viii] it descends into the human soul. It doesn’t flatten Mormons into caricatures or punchlines but engages them as fully realized people—fallible, searching, flawed, and alive. To obsess over small inaccuracies would be to miss the film’s richer offering: a narrative that transcends faith to interrogate the universal. It wrestles with the collision of internal power and external control, the machinery of greed and lust disguised as righteousness. Yet at its heart is a reminder, a revelation: within us burns something more potent than systems, more resilient than dogma—a quiet, unquantifiable force that refuses to be subdued. That is the triumph of Heretic: not just good art, but art that reaches into the marrow and sinew of existence and insists we see what we too often miss. Something just at the tip of your finger, waiting to be paid attention to.

NOTES

[i] Is this a Utah War joke? Yes, yes it is.

[ii] The film’s opening scene immediately grabs the audience with its provocative juxtaposition: two young, attractive LDS sister missionaries sit on a bus bench, discussing sex in the form of “porno-graphy”—a word Sister Paxton (Chloe East) hilariously mispronounces—while a massive condom advertisement looms behind them. Sister Paxton earnestly tries to reframe a pornographic image she’s encountered into a faith-affirming narrative, justifying her need to analyze it. Sister Barnes (Sophie Thatcher), distracted by her own inner thoughts, listens with minimal engagement. Her eventual response, delivered like a sharp accusation, asking if she actually watched the “porn”—makes Paxton visibly recoil in quiet shame.

[iii] Hugh Grant’s character, Mr. Reed, pronounces the name of the Book of Mormon prophet Moroni to rhyme with “macaroni,” triggering Mormons’ boundary maintenance impulse—a subtle way they gauge who is “in” or “out” of their community. The sister missionaries correct him to the familiar “more-own-nye,” highlighting how pronunciation often serves as a litmus test for accuracy and authenticity in Mormon representation.

[iv] While Sister Barnes’s skepticism is more overt, this scene reveals that Sister Paxton is also grappling with her world, though in a different way. She’s striving to stay obedient to the worldview she was raised with, yet her curiosity is undeniable. She’s questioning the role of women, their power, and their representation—all while navigating the constraints of her faith. This tension invites the viewer into the film with a compelling exploration of identity and belief right from the start.

[v] If I have one note on the script, it’s that the writers could have pushed this further: missionaries, especially women, will endure almost any abuse to secure a baptism, driven by a fear of seeming rude or unpleasant. While the film teases this people-pleasing impulse, I think Mr. Reed’s character could have been even creepier, and the missionaries would likely still have stayed.

[vi] Writer Bryan Woods said in an interview with the Daily Beast: “We chose Mormonism as the entry point for this larger, broader conversation of all religions because it is a very new religion. If you’re talking about major world religions, it is the biggest, newest religion. Which means that its history is so recent that it’s easy to pick apart historical problems with it. It’s a very good entry point. It’s also an American religion. It’s the only American Christ narrative in world religions, and that is amusing to us as Americans. Then on top of that, our personal connections to the faith. We felt like we know Mormons. I married into a Mormon family. I’m not Mormon, but my wife’s family is, and we felt like we had an opportunity to present an authentic Mormon depiction that’s not condescending, that’s not making fun of them. We wanted to write two Mormon missionary characters that, yes, they’re a little naive, they’re young, they grew up in a certain mindset, but there’s a lot of depth there and they’re really smart and they’re kind of fucking cool. That was exciting to us as well.”

[vii] The film concludes with a profound irony: the very miracles it seeks to dismantle persist, unresolved and undeniable. This reflects a universal truth that transcends any single faith—the mysteries of existence defy explanation, categorization, or control. Mr. Reed claims the one true religion is control, but the film ultimately reveals a deeper truth: the most profound connection is not external or imposed, but innate—a thread within every soul, uniting us to a vast and inexplicable reality.

Sister Paxton’s courage and persistence shine in this journey. Her determination to wrestle with the tension between doubt and belief becomes a quiet act of defiance and self-affirmation. In the end, the universe gifts her with a meaning she wasn’t expecting—a moment that reaffirms not just her faith, but her faith in herself. The film leaves us questioning not whether belief is true or false, but whether its beauty and power lie precisely in its unprovable nature. It reminds us that the search for meaning is itself a miracle, one uniquely ours to experience. One not proven or disproven by the logic of men, or god, but one felt inside the heart.

[viii] Am I making a Kolob reference? Probably.