Ken Russell's The Devils was banned in Finland until 2001, which means everyone who wanted to see it had done so well before it was legal.
I saw The Devils for the first time in 2000 on a battered VHS tape, re-recorded at least five times over, in edited form, butchered by pearl-clutching censors from another country. It wasn't ideal in any way, yet even then, it left an inescapable impression. I didn't understand most of it; I was 14 - how could I? But I understood the feeling it left behind.
Another 25 years later, The Devils finally returns in its completed form, proving itself a sublime, timeless provocation that has lost none of its potency. Meticulously restored, the 4K print looks as if it was shot yesterday. I know I watched The Devils in my youth, but I did not truly see it until now.
Set in Loudon during the seventeenth century, The Devils is a loosely historical retelling of the witch trial and execution of Father Grandier (Oliver Reed), who is accused of satanic acts involving a local convent comprised entirely of women. Their leader, Sister Jeanne (Vanessa Redgrave), lusts after Grandier and watches him hungrily through the bars of their reclusive home. When the lecherous priest marries, her desperation sparks a lie that gives the Catholic church the excuse they need to tear down Grandier's haven.
Naturally, the church cares little for what Grandier does to his flock. They're more interested in the power of the self-governing Loudon and the ensuing war between Protestants and Catholics vying for the seat of power in France. Russell's distaste for those in power doesn't pick sides; everyone is a hypocrite, some just have fancier robes.
The story itself is simple; everything around it is not. This is a moody, ostentatious melodrama, intentionally operatic and grandiose to make sense of the world. In its opening scene, we witness Grandier abandon his latest mistress when she announces her pregnancy. He declares himself ready to die, if only someone would grant him that peace. Around them, Loudon's streets fill with the dead and dying from the plague. It's as if the world is ending, or it always was, and we weren't paying attention.
As the church descends on Loudon, they're joined by a witch-hunter (Michael Gothard) who claims he can spot the devil's influence through "science". Naturally, said science is merely torture, including forced enemas and beatings, and all of it is an excuse to exert power over those who can't defend themselves. In one of the most horrifying sequences, Russell brilliantly pulls the rug from under our feet, shifting the mood from acerbic farce to gruesome horror within seconds as Loudon's sanctity is broken.
It's here that The Devil's proves most fascinating. Beyond its blustering and humorous satire, Russell's brilliantly composed film is really about the different aspects of systemic power and its abuses. Grandier calls himself a man of god, yet fucks anything with a pulse and a smile. Jeanne leads her Ursuline convent in moral seclusion, yet dreams of wild sexual acts with a man she doesn't know. The churches themselves are merely ornate bureaucracies more concerned with amassing power than deliverance.
Throughout the decades, The Devils has garnered a reputation as a blasphemous, morally putrid film. Today, that reputation feels almost quaint. You can find worse imagery on Instagram. But the symbolism has lost none of its power.
Derek Jarman's striking set design and Shirley Russell's lush costuming evoke the romanticism of grand BBC dramas, which The Devil's proudly tears down with gleeful abandon. Watch, for example, how Grandier swoops up and down Loudon's streets like a perpetually erect Don Giovanni, and tell me that's not Russell cackling at the empty meaning we attach to manmade objects. A cross is a cross, Russell suggests; using it for masturbation is no less an affront than crucifixion.
Richardson is brilliant as the desperately lonely Jeanne, even if Russell's impish humor is most obvious with the casting. After all, no matter the makeup, it's still Vanessa Redgrave under that hood, and the cloister looks as if everyone wandered in from a Russ Meyer shoot. Similarly, Reed's puffed-up, eternally sweaty performance as Grandier evokes imagery of a horny Christmas ham that is somehow still tragic and compelling. Grandier is a lecherous hypocrite, but he's Loudon's lecherous hypocrite, and when he falls, so does their world.
The Devils is a timeless work of art because it is about human nature and desire. It doesn't pretend to have answers, nor does it sneer from the sidelines. Russell's contempt is for those who oppress others with their limited souls, and there's a tremendous empathy coursing through the seedy frames of this film.
As the world turns towards fascism and ugly conservative values once again, Russell's vision of the past feels as relevant today as it did in 1971. It attacks its subjects like a court jester, intentionally abrasive and shocking, only to hold up a mirror to its viewers. If the vision offends, perhaps it's because of the reflection.
The Devils premieres in Finnish cinemas on October 16th.
