A Deep Dive into Ken Russell’s Most Controversial Film and the Visionary Director Who Dared to Unleash It.

Few films in the canon of cinema’s most egregious masterpieces evoke as much awe and disgust as Ken Russell’s The Devils (1971). The film is one of the most scathing critiques of authority ever seen, with its unapologetic portrayal of institutional brutality, sexual repression, political corruption, and religious fanaticism. However, The Devils is more than just a shock exercise; it is a profoundly creative, highly clever vision that combines operatic intensity with historical drama. To understand the film, one must confront the terrors of the 17th century and the audacious genius of Ken Russell, a filmmaker who embraced both controversy and beauty.

The Devils, which is set in the French town of Loudun in 1634, is the sad tale of Urbain Grandier, a Catholic priest who is targeted by religious authorities who want to punish him for his disobedience of the state and church. Russell’s adaptation, which is based on John Whiting’s play of the same name and Aldous Huxley’s The Devils of Loudun, retells the true tale of mass possession and witch trials through an expressionist lens. Baroque imagery, cutting-edge acting, and a constant tone of growing mania combine to create an unforgettable experience. It’s completely different from anything that has come before or subsequently, with elements of fever dream and historical reconstruction.

Oliver Reed portrays Grandier, a man torn between spiritual obligation and sensuous enjoyment, in one of his most powerful performances. Arrogant, haughty, and womanising, Grandier is a paradoxical person who is steadfastly dedicated to defending his people against oppression. He signs his death sentence after opposing Cardinal Richelieu’s intention to demolish the fortifications of Loudun, which is an attempt to consolidate power under the guise of uniting France. As Sister Jeanne, the hunchbacked, erotically tortured Mother Superior whose compulsive obsession with Grandier leads to the charge of demonic possession, Vanessa Redgrave gives an outstanding performance. Her images of Christ and the priest are writhing, groaning, and sexually charged; they combine blasphemy with intense human need.

Russell takes the subject matter much beyond historical drama. The picture often resembles a heavenly nightmare due to Derek Jarman’s production design, which conjures a bizarre mix of antiseptic dictatorship and Renaissance aesthetics. The Devils is a sensory overload that is never overdone. It is set amid cramped convent cells, blood-soaked altars, scorching flames, and pure white hallways. Its macabre imagery—from nuns performing orgiastic rites to Grandier’s torture and burning—is meant to accuse rather than to titillate. Each frame is an outcry against the corrupt union of political manipulation and theocratic authority.

The release of the movie caused a cultural upheaval. Around the globe, censorship boards objected to its obscene tone and graphic content. Most versions omitted the infamous “Rape of Christ” scene, which depicted a group of nude nuns defiling a statue of Jesus, and decades later, the sequence was reassembled. In the US, the Catholic Church vehemently condemned the movie, while in Britain, the BBFC called for edits. Warner Bros. buried it, and they still won’t release an uncensored version. The Devils was only partially viewed, frequently discussed, and marred by censorship, yet it has remained difficult to forget for decades. It became something of a cinematic ghost.

Russell himself is responsible for a large portion of the film’s frenzy. A former television documentarian, he had gained a reputation for flamboyant, quirky storytelling with films such as The Music Lovers (1970), a fierce, sensual biopic of Tchaikovsky, and Women in Love (1969), for which Glenda Jackson received an Oscar. Russell's artistic inclinations challenged the conventional British restraint. Russell always devoted himself to the emotional honesty of his topics, despite his theatricality, bombast, and often vulgarity. His movies weren’t nihilistic, but they weren’t for the weak of heart either. A deep moral seriousness and an unwavering look into the heart of the human dilemma lay behind the excess.

Russell's brilliance stemmed from his ability to evoke the grandeur of classical music while exploring the depths of human desire, skillfully balancing the boundaries between high and low art. This distinction is never more clear than in The Devils. Critics often focused on the film’s “perversity,” but they overlooked how deeply rooted it is in historical fact and spiritual analysis. Russell was not creating a movie about Satan; rather, he was focusing on how organisations use the devil to cover up their wrongdoings. By doing this, he created what may have been his most spiritual film—not in a religious sense, but rather in the way it explored faith, selflessness, and redemption in the face of improbable circumstances.

Russell vehemently defended the movie in interviews. He once said, “People always ask, ‘Why do you make such violent, outrageous films?’” However, I don’t. My films deal with indignation and violence, two rather distinct topics. He had no regrets about his vision and refused to soften it for comfort. What distinguishes his legacy is his reluctance to make concessions. By eschewing polite storylines in favour of expressionistic provocations, he pushed British film into perilous new terrain. He found no conflict in incorporating rock music into literary adaptations (as in Tommy, 1975) or bringing obscene comedy to sacred themes (as in Lisztomania, 1975). Excess was a weapon, not a weakness, for Russell.

The Devils were, in many respects, the pinnacle of his influence and the start of his decline. Studios were reluctant to support his projects after the reaction. Despite his ongoing prodigious output, which included ventures into opera and television, he was often written off as being too “unmanageable,” his vision too wild for the general public. However, admiration for Russell’s artistic abilities has only increased over time. He has been mentioned as a significant inspiration by filmmakers Peter Strickland, Darren Aronofsky, and Guillermo del Toro. Contemporary reviewers have reexamined his work, highlighting its unique and courageous originality.

Specifically, the film "The Devils" has made a comeback. Scholars have written on its intersection of politics, theology, and performance, and restored versions have aired at festivals. A warning against naïve faith, mass frenzy, and the weaponisation of virtue, what once appeared filthy now reads as prophetic. The film’s climactic sequences, in which Grandier is burnt alive in front of a mocking throng, are intolerable not because they are violent but rather because they show how quickly morality and truth can be subverted by dogma.

Surprisingly, the last scenes of the film also convey a sense of affection. Reed portrays Grandier with a gentle dignity as he pardons his executioners, transforming the role from a martyr to a universal figure. He represents every individual who has independently defied the apparatus of authority. He is Socrates, Christ, and Joan of Arc. And Russell discovers a glimmer of transcendence in that furnace of fire. Despite the brutality depicted in The Devils, the story concludes with a message of resistance rather than hopelessness.

The Devils was never formally restored or made available in its whole, uncensored form before Ken Russell passed away in 2011. However, today we regard the movie as one of the great lost cinematic classics. It demonstrates his unwavering vision, operatic flair, and strong faith in the ethical influence of art. Few filmmakers have ventured as far as Russell, and even fewer have been able to convey so much in such a chaotic way. Despite its violence and blasphemy, The Devils is ultimately a very spiritual movie that reveals the demons in people’s souls and the structures they create, not in hell.

Ultimately, one should not view or explain The Devils lightly. The Devils is a challenging experience for its characters, its audience, and its author. It asks for your pain, your intelligence, and your ability to empathize. It is a film that bleeds, art that defies sedation. And Ken Russell offered us a work that dares to offend, confront, and—perhaps most importantly—remember in a world where so many movies aim to please. The Devils is still a cinematic exorcism, still blazing, still prohibited, and still as important as ever for those who dare to see it.

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