Shocking Twist! ‘Late Night With the Devil’ Talk Show Disaster Revealed – Must See!

“An Evening with Lucifer,” a cunning, low-key horror flick from the filmmaking duo Cameron Cairnes and Colin Cairnes, astutely points out that the world of show business was founded on deception. The entire industry is a facade, from the actors, dialogue, and costumes to the sets, editing, and the captivating illusion of celebrities appearing on our television screens at a moment’s notice, like genies summoned for our entertainment. Some of the industry’s most creative figures were, in fact, magicians. Georges Méliès, the pioneer of visual effects, honed his skills at the Théâtre Robert-Houdin. Later, during the more skeptical 1970s — the era in which this film is set — Johnny Carson leveraged his background as the Great Carsoni to spike viewership by teaming up with professional skeptic James Randi to debunk mentalist Uri Geller’s spoon-bending antics on live television.

Concurrently in Australia, where the Cairnes brothers were brought up, renowned host Don Lane invited James Randi to his show. However, when Randi discredited the program’s regular psychic, Lane famously told Randi to get lost. With a flick of their creative wand, the Cairnes have transmuted Lane’s smooth, innocent energy into “Evening’s” protagonist Jack Delroy (David Dastmalchian), a people-pleasing, showboating host with a comical sweep of hair. For years, Jack has unsuccessfully attempted to catapult his New York-based talk show, “Night Birds with Jack Delroy,” to the top, even leveraging his terminally ill wife, Madeleine (Georgina Haig), for a special episode. Despite exploiting his own sorrow, he still couldn’t beat Carson.

So, on Halloween 1977 — also known as Sweeps Week — Jack and his increasingly nervous band leader, Gus (Rhys Auteri), welcome a seer (Fayssal Bazzi), a parapsychologist (Laura Gordon), a potentially possessed teenage girl (Ingrid Torelli), and a domineering skeptic (Ian Bliss) to the show. The film is portrayed as discovered footage of that broadcast, from the opening monologue (jokes about President Carter!) to the ensuing chaos. During commercial breaks, a handheld camera roams backstage, capturing the director (Christopher Kirby) shouting, “Where’s my ceremonial knife? We’re live in 60 seconds!” Predictably, chaos ensues.

Initially, we enjoy the quaintness of these vintage chills. Rubber bats hang from strings. Gus jests with a red plastic pitchfork. Jack roams around dressed as a sheet ghost. But even out of costume, Jack is always in disguise. With a few practiced moves — a finger point, a mimed bat swing — Dastmalchian reveals that he’s portraying a character hollowed out by ambition. Jack is friendly, perhaps genuinely so. Yet, if you were to remove his unchanging grin, you’d find nothing but emptiness.

The night truly goes awry when Lilly, Torelli’s young Satanist, arrives in a pinafore, eerily mimicking a normal schoolgirl. Torelli is a brilliant physical comedian; even in handcuffs, she hams it up. It’s clear she’s meant to be terrifying, but it’s easier to focus on Bliss’ obnoxious skeptic, who is so annoying that we hope the devil himself will drag him backstage.

This film is a pressure-cooker, a study in low-budget simplicity that relies on a single set and a single objective: Keep the audience hooked. Any unresolved plot threads simply drift away. The restraint even extends to the muted rainbow stripes adorning the wall behind Jack’s couch, a nod to the 1970s when scientists were busy inventing new shades of brown. Between Otello Stolfo’s precise production design and costume designer Steph Hooke’s wide lapels, the campiness never descends into caricature. In a foreboding touch, the logo for “Night Birds” is a bird ominously hovering over the Twin Towers.

The film is a romp, not a profound commentary on how mass media can taint the soul. That message is subtly woven into the narrative, of course, but it rings hollow. Generations have passed since televangelists declared television the devil’s box, and we all know that in the ’80s, some of these moral crusaders made a fortune broadcasting their own shows. When the character Howard Beale in “Network” urged people to switch off their TVs, we felt implicated. But when Jack Delroy does it, we’re simply admiring how cinematographer Matthew Temple beautifully captures his meltdown in an impressive tracking shot. “I don’t believe that TV cameras lie,” asserts Lilly. Maybe, but the people behind them certainly do — and what truly frightens us now is the ease with which audiences allow themselves to be duped.