Alexander Walker – film critic for the LES

An important figure in our study of Film regulation in the UK – Walker was behind moves to ban “Crash” and had a hatred of “The Devils” which led him to being assaulted by its director – Ken Russell.

Obituary from The Guardian

Alexander Walker
Outstanding and outspoken film critic and writer

Derek Malcolm
The Guardian, Wednesday 16 July 2003 12.23 BST

Alexander Walker, who has died suddenly aged 73, was the most professional film critic I have met. He reviewed for the London Evening Standard for more than 43 years, was one of the most widely known critics in the country and won the British Press Award’s critic of the year prize three times.
He was the complete antithesis of the old journalistic adage that you don’t ask a critic to write a story because they will probably make a hash of it. Walker never made a hash of it, and could turn his hand to a great deal more than simple reviewing. Yet he never lost his enthusiasm for his main task – to tell us, in no uncertain terms, what films to see and what to miss.

To say that he was often controversial would be putting it mildly. He could annoy and provoke like few others. And this capacity, sometimes quite bilious, made it all the more wondrous for a filmmaker who, having been severely hauled over the coals, was then heaped with generous praise for his next movie.

One of Walker’s most obvious characteristics was that you never knew which way he would go. Surprise was often a key element in his reviews. He resolutely refused to sit on the fence, and staleness, caused by watching stream upon stream of bad movies as well as good ones, never set in. His prose was as polished and as fresh at the end as when he started.

Raised in Portadown, Northern Ireland, Walker attended the local grammar school, then studied at Queen’s University, Belfast, the College of Europe in Bruges, and the University of Michigan, where he also lectured in political philosophy for two years from 1952. He got his first break on the Birmingham Gazette, as features editor from 1954 to 1956, before moving to the Birmingham Post as leader writer and film critic, and then to the Standard in 1960.

There, Lord Beaverbrook took issue with his favourable review of Harold Lloyd’s World Of Comedy, to which the press baron had taken his long-term companion, Lady Dunn. They had walked out and wanted Alex to explain himself. He retaliated thus: “Dear Lord Beaverbrook, I am sorry you and Lady Dunn did not enjoy Harold Lloyd’s World Of Comedy. For me, in future, high buildings will hold an additional hazard.”

Those who didn’t know Walker, except from his work, were sometimes terrified of this always immaculate figure, or at least of ruffling his feathers. When his blood was up, he could be a formidable adversary, as the British Film Academy, then the British Film Institute, where he was a governor from 1989 to 1995, and finally the Film Council, knew.

He could chew up his opponents like a dog with a particularly delicious bone. He gave no quarter and did not expect any. But once you got to know the man, his kindness and extreme politesse came through strongly. He was also a most entertaining dinner companion, telling stories superbly and offering a range of mimicry that would have been useful for any comedian. He lived alone in Maida Vale, in an immaculate flat, which, he told me, he always cleaned himself. He was, in some ways, a slightly sad figure who, though he had many friends, seemed to live almost totally through his work.

Walker’s achievement lay as much in his biographical studies and books about the British film industry as in his weekly pieces – he had a shrewd understanding of both the film business and what made those in it tick. Hollywood, England: The British Film Industry In The Sixties (1974) was particularly outstanding, and his biographies of Peter Sellers (1981) and Elizabeth Taylor (1990), and books on Greta Garbo (1980), Marlene Dietrich (1984), Bette Davis (1986), Joan Crawford (1983) and others were a model of their kind.

Altogether, Walker wrote 20 books, including an appreciation of Stanley Kubrick’s work (1971) – he was one of the very few critics that reclusive director ever let near him – and was in the middle of another one when he died.

He called one of them It’s Only A Movie, Ingrid (1988), after the remark Alfred Hitchcock made to Ingrid Bergman when she cut up rough during shooting. But there was no “only” about Alex’s attitude to movies. He never ceased to enthuse about the good ones, and whack the bad ones with all his might. Whether you liked what he said or not, he was an outstandingly readable critic and a first-class journalist.

Peter Bradshaw writes: The death of the brilliant, pugnacious and prolific Alex Walker deprives us of a living folk memory of movies and movie culture. I knew him first when I joined the Standard in 1989, but it was only when I became film critic at the Guardian 10 years later that I felt his glittering, ancient mariner-like eye on me in earnest.

The first thing about him was his extraordinary voice: it was partly Portadown, but had been softened along the way with a twist of something else, a kind of unlocatably sing-song note, perhaps from his travels in North America – partly Canadian? I suspect that like many who owed their careers to Lord Beaverbrook, Alex had picked up a hint of the baron’s stately drawl.

He was always impeccably turned out – always a suit and tie, when the rest of us slobs slumped around the screening rooms in jeans – though he favoured a raffish cravat, brilliant white slacks and a huge pair of aviator-style sunglasses when on the Croisette at Cannes. When he spoke to me directly, it was often with the air of a headmaster about to rebuke a lively sixth-former who had been encouraged by other teachers to address the staff by their first names.

Alex was a great quarreller. But he was always funny, stimulating, passionately concerned with the cinema. My first Guardian piece was a review of Notting Hill, in which I noted the absence of black characters. When the article came out, I was in the Standard offices and Alex appeared in front of me. “Peter,” he said gravely, “I see that, like Sir William Macpherson, you have convicted the film Notting Hill of institutional racism. But let me tell you this.” He came closer. “There were no Arabs in Casablanca!” And with that, he was gone.

· Alexander Walker, film critic, born March 22 1930; died July 15 2003

From the Film4 website…

The news of the death of Alexander Walker – arch film critic for the London ‘Evening Standard’ – came as something of a shock not only for his friends, but also for those of us who were proud to be his adversaries. One of the most outspoken and eccentric critics of his generation, Walker was given to lambasting and excoriating the very films which I consider a reason to keep going back to the cinema. If you’ve ever watched any of my ‘Extreme Cinema’ introductions, you’ll probably have noticed how regularly his name came up in leading the charge against the kind of films we choose to celebrate here on FilmFour.A few examples: In the late 90s, Walker’s Cannes report headlined “A Movie Beyond The Bounds of Depravity” lit the fuse which sparked the campaign to ban David Cronenberg’s Crash, one of the greatest films of the last 25 years, and a stunning work of art all round. A year or so later, Walker called for the police to investigate screenings of Miike Takashi’s mind-boggling Audition (my favourite film of that year, and a real wake-up call for the moribund Western horror genre), and questioned the legality of the censors’ decision to pass it without cuts. More recently, he spat bile and derision upon the makers of Irréversible (the most sustained and accomplished exploitation movie since The Last House On The Left), and claimed that the BBFC had “betrayed” the British public for passing it for exhibition. Oh, and he hated Marc Evan’s brilliant Resurrection Man too…Inevitably, Walker’s high profile campaigns against films that I love led to public spats between us – often in the letters page of ‘Sight and Sound’ magazine, where his responses to my responses to his responses to films like Crash and Irréversible were always entertainingly feisty. They were also both proud and forthright – he most recently took me to task, for example, for failing to credit him personally with a blistering attack upon the morality of movies like Baise-Moi in the ‘Evening Standard’. As far as Alex was concerned, the words which I had quoted scornfully were his and he was proud of them (He also suggested that I had not quoted him fully enough, and enclosed the text of the relevant surrounding material which he asked to be published – just for the record.) Considering how little we agreed with each other about movies and censorship, it may surprise some to learn that Alexander Walker and I were on entirely civil terms in person. Indeed, since his involvement in my 2002 documentary about Ken Russell’s dark masterpiece The Devils (a film which Walker hated with a passion) I like to think that we had become politely acquainted. For those who missed ‘Hell on Earth: The Desecration and Resurrection of The Devils’, Walker was included because of an infamous and long-standing feud which erupted between him and Russell after the two clashed on a BBC arts programme back in the early 70s. Having declared The Devils to be little more than exploitative filth, Walker found himself physically assaulted live on air by Russell, who struck him over the head with a rolled up copy of the ‘Evening Standard’, a paper which Walker later claimed “may have contained an iron bar, for all anyone knew.” A scandal ensued with legal action being threatened and questions asked in the House – a fuss not dissimilar to that which Walker would later whip up around Crash. Since Russell and Walker never patched up their differences over The Devils, and knowing that Russell is a personal friend of mine, it is to Walker’s immense credit that when I asked him to appear in ‘Hell on Earth’ (which he knew would be broadly in favour of The Devils) he agreed without hesitation. When asked to voice his heartfelt objections to The Devils on camera, he did so with all the passion and vigour that he had mustered 30 years earlier. Once again, with clarity and precision, Walker explained to me why the film was nothing more than “the masturbation fantasies of a Catholic schoolboy” and why Russell was completely wrong-headed in his scripting and direction of this “hysterical” nonsense. He talked calmly and frankly (and with good humour) about the “on-air attack” while still fiercely defending the opinions which had so enraged Russell. After which, we shook hands, agreed to disagree on the subject of The Devils (and Crash, and Irréversible, and Baise-Moi etc etc) and went our respective ways.Now that he is gone, Alexander Walker leaves something of a hole in the shrinking world of British film criticism. In an age in which proper film critics are increasingly being usurped by bozo ‘presenters’ and celebrity ‘talking heads’ who know nothing of film history (and often haven’t even bothered to watch the fucking films in question) we can ill afford to lose anyone who takes their job seriously and who is willing to stand up for their personal opinions – however controversial. No matter how much I disagreed with Walker’s views on cinema, no-one could ever doubt his integrity and honesty – he said what he believed, and he was always willing to defend his views in public. Plus, he knew cinema inside out, and was able to contextualise his often cantankerous opinions within an extensive awareness of film history which few of today’s high profile film commentators could match.

Like chief censor James Ferman, who’s passing left me baffled and bewildered, Alexander Walker was a significant figure in my own development as a film critic – someone against whose opinions I could rail with enthusiasm, and whom I think I secretly believed to be indestructible. It’s a cliché to say it, but he will be sorely missed – not least by me. After all, who else is out there now to provoke the kind of serious debate about cinema which Walker’s outpourings inevitably prompted?

In short, it’s a bloody shame that he’s gone, and anyone who loves cinema (extreme or otherwise) should mourn his passing.

Mark Kermode (thanks Kieron)

The Devils

The SBBFC case study on the film
The BFI page on the film controversy
A short BFI feature on Mark Kermode’s desire to see The Devils restored
Also – search Youtube for material on The Devils, specifically “Hell on Earth – The Desecration & Resurrection of “The Devils” to view a fascinating documentary in 6 parts made by Mark Kermode himself, and featuring participants from the film and critics including Alexander Walker, of the London Evening Standard, who was so offended by the film.

A piece from theyorker.com, defending the film….
Resurrection and Damnation: Defending Ken Russell’s Devils

Wednesday, 17th November 2010
James Absolon

“Not blasphemy but a depiction of blasphemy.”

So Ken Russell defended his 1971 masterpiece The Devils, a film considered so shocking that even released in a butchered form, it still managed to provoke outrage and disbelief, whilst remaining true cinematic tour de force. Based upon a supposed case of real possession in seventeenth century French town of Loudun, The Devils is a stunning examination of corruption, greed and power, breaking taboos and going to extremes to create a remarkable piece of cinema. Now having been restored to its original glory, it’s a film of even more extraordinary power almost forty years after its creation. However, rather than this newly resurrected version giving the film a much deserved new lease of life, it has instead been effectively banned – not by the BBFC, who passed it uncut this time around, but instead by its own distributors.’

Something that seems completely bizarre for here is a genuinely powerful and stunning piece of cinema, which is being refused release for no other reason than fear of its own power. Admittedly, The Devils is an extremely strange and very strong film both in terms of violence and imagery, and it is certainly not a film for everyone and should not be approached without extreme caution. However, when it comes to examinations of corruption and the degradation of power and humanity, it bears no equal. The whole film is stunningly shot and put together from the simply astonishing set designs by a then young Derek Jarman that create an incredibly strange visual sense of the town of Loudun and its locality to its central performances. Indeed, it is the performances that in many respects come to define it and are across the board phenomenal. Oliver Reed, who was never better than his staggering performance as Grandier, gives the film its central core: a character who, although repellent in many respects, is vastly superior to the world around him. However, perhaps the film’s most memorably iconic and striking performance is that of Vanessa Redgrave, whose performance as Sister Jennne of the Angels, a supposedly possessed and utterly deranged nun, is undoubtedly one of the most remarkable I have ever seen and something that, with its stunning intensity and sheer power, I can only compare to the likes of Isaebella Adjani in Possession or Charlotte Gainsbourg in Antichrist. The overall effect of all these elements coming together is something unique as it is extraordinary. The Devils is a stunning and remarkable piece of work that mixes dramatic and horror elements to create one of the finest examples of British film making talent.

Yet American distributors Warner Brothers refuse to release the film, for which no apparent reasons are given except for perhaps the fear of causing offence. So we are left with what is essentially a British masterpiece being withheld by American distributors. When you consider that films like Pasolini’s physically repulsive Salo: 120 Days of Sodom are readily available in this country, it makes little sense. For compared to that, as well as being easier to stomach, The Devils is, for my money, a far less offensive and vastly superior piece of work that, despite what Warner Brothers may think, desperately needs to be seen.

A short review from eofftv….

The Devils (1971)

REVIEW
When Stephen Murphy stepped into John Trevelyan’s shoes at the BBFC in July 1971 he couldn’t have been prepared for what was about to happen. Amid increasing controversy over the so-called ‘sex education’ films that had proliferated during the early months of the year and faced with the indignation of the newly formed Festival of Light, Murphy was denied the opportunity to slip quietly into his new role. And then there was The Devils.

Murphy had inherited Ken Russell’s cause celebre from Trevelyan who had conducted the protracted censorship battle with Russell during the closing weeks of his tenure at the Board. But when the public outcry began, it was Murphy who had to field the questions and criticisms – he was left holding the squalling baby after just a few days in the job.

In an astonishing year for British horror, the remarkable The Devils is the outstanding film, an excessive but brilliant study of madness and bigotry that remains possibly Russell’s best work, and certainly his most controversial. Russell had, by the turn of the 70s, grown used to his work being vilified in public, but even he was perhaps unprepared for the outpouring of vitriol that greeted his liberal adaptation of Aldous Huxley’s The Devils of Loudon (1952). Dismissed by the critics, vilified by Christian pressure groups and met with bewilderment by a dazed public, The Devils provoked howls of outrage wherever it was shown. Even when the BBC deigned it possible to screen the film during their Forbidden Cinema season in 1996, there were a number of calls of protest both before and after broadcast.

The Devils largely dispenses with both Huxley and the stage adaptation by John Whiting and instead runs the gamut of Russell’s own obsessions and motifs, turning the complex philosophical debate on theology into a wild orgy of sex, violence and high camp spectacle. Russell’s typically flamboyant approach does not, as has been claimed elsewhere, hammer any political intent into submission, but rather brings it into much sharper relief. Russell carefully explores the political in-fighting that waged unchecked throughout the Christian faith, with sect fighting sect while the state stood by waiting to assimilate the exhausted victor. He realises an obscene world of hypocrisy, madness (both literal and political) and corruption where the forces of both organised religion and the state are capable of the most appalling acts in the name of their God and in the interest of their own self-preservation.

That’s not to say that the film lacks Russell’s characteristic shock value. Nuns afflicted with the devastating result of the release of their sexual frustration, Jeanne’s blasphemous masturbation fantasies and her repulsive exorcism by colonic are all excuses for Russell to indulge his own fetishes and obsessions. Which is, in itself, no bad thing, of course and coupled with the political subtexts and, most crucially, the socio-historical context, result in a film of almost unbearable power and outrage.

Reed has rarely been better than here, perfectly cast as the excessive but sympathetic Grandier, ultimately burned at the stake for his ‘crimes’. His charismatic presence and too-often derided acting abilities are perfect for the role, giving Grandier an almost messianic air and lending the proceedings an allegorical slant – like the Christ he worships, Grandier is ultimately killed by his own followers for simply trying to do the right thing. Russell saw his film as a way to exercise his “rape of Christ concept” and with the pre-release removal of a scene which literally brought this notion to life (the crazed nuns masturbate over a life-size crucifix) it is left to Reed’s hypnotic portrayal of a man fated to die for his beliefs and his love of freedom to carry the allegory.

Somewhat less compelling is Redgrave, whose Sister Jeanne is simply too broad and too close to slapstick for comfort. It tends to be Russell and his crew (including set designer Derek Jarman and cinematographer David Watkin) who are the real stars here, effortlessly blending a classic study of political machinations and religious intolerance with swaggering, vainglorious folly. The scale of the production is often simply breathtaking.

The Devils was dismissed by many as blasphemous, crass or shocking simply for its own sake – 17 local councils banned it outright while pressure group the National Viewers and Listener’s Association were particularly vociferous in their condemnation. Seen with the benefit of hindsight, it remains a powerful and often deeply disturbing meditation on sexual repression, religious mania and political corruption as only Russell can do it. Often hysterically over the top and frequently brutal and confrontational, The Devil’s power lies in its deliberate flouting of all of the ‘rules’ of decency and taste. Russell has never been one to exercise restraint and here he lets rip with the full weight of his righteous indignation in one of the most astonishing primal screams ever committed to celluloid.

Russell himself has bemoaned the critical establishment’s apparent inability to understand his true intentions: “‘What people don’t understand,’ Ken adds, ‘is that The Devils was done with a great sense of irony’.” Certainly the broadness of the characters and the often unsubtle humour attest to Russell’s intention to parody the real-life events of Loudon, though most of the film’s detractors were blinded to just about everything but the sex, the violence and the blasphemy.

One of those detractors was British critic Alexander Walker of the London Evening Standard who very nearly met his match on the night of July 22nd 1971 when he appeared with Russell on the BBC’s Tonight programme to discuss the film. Walker’s damning (and error-riddled) review had been published earlier that day in the Standard and from the off, Russell proved to be in no mood to simply accept Walker’s critique. The meeting proved spectacular and is now the stuff of TV legend, with Russell immediately going on the offensive, reminding Walker that his films were made for paying cinemagoers and not for the critical establishment. Adding insult to injury, Walker noted that “The public doesn’t appear all that grateful, especially in America,” a reference to the film’s poor box office performance in the States. Russell then exploded, hitting Walker across the head with his rolled up copy of the Standard and exhorting Walker to “go to America and write for the fucking Americans!”

The fallout was predictable enough – the BBC switchboards were jammed by indignant viewers calling to complain about Russell’s language and the tabloid hacks had a field day. Walker was told by the BBC that should he ever appear on TV again with Russell he “must give an undertaking in advance not to provoke him” (Walker 1988, p.107) and Russell wrote an indignant letter to the Radio Times suggesting that Walker and Tonight frontman Ludovic Kennedy had conspired against him. A “diminuendo of accusations, libel threats and, eventual, qualified apologies” (ibid) followed, but Walker claims to bear no grudge against Russell: “In fact, I had rather more respect for Ken Russell for forcing his emotions so trenchantly on a critic. The manner of his doing so was, after all, the very embodiment of his filmmaking” (ibid). Russell remains adamant that the furor surrounding the film was justified: “Was it worth it? To me, yes. The Devils was a political statement worth making” (Russell, 1989, p.193).
KEVIN LYONS

REFERENCES

Russell, Ken (1989): A British Picture: An Autobiography (UK: Heineman)

Walker, Alexander (1988): “It’s Only a Movie, Ingrid”: Encounters On and Off Screen (UK: Headline)

Why Haven’t You Seen…?: The Devils
By Sam Inglis– November 15, 2010
Posted in: Film, Why Haven’t You Seen…?
This the first of a new series for MMM. Each week I’ll be taking a look at an obscure, unreleased or otherwise underseen film that I think more people should take the time to track down and watch, and we’re starting with a film that has been a controversy magnet for every minute of its 39 year life.

THE DEVILS (1971)
Director: Ken Russell

What’s It All About?
The film begins with a caption informing us that it is based on real events, and that its main characters actually lived in the French town of Loudon in the 17th century. That may be true, but probably only to a very limited degree, and what the film is really based most heavily on are the play by John Whiting and the novel The Devils of Loudon by Aldous Huxley.

It’s set in Loudon in 1634, and chronicles, graphically, what seems to be a madness overtaking the town, prompted by the growing sexual obsession the leader of the local convent (Vanessa Redgrave) has for the local parish priest Father Grandier (Oliver Reed) and by the fact that a local lord, Cardinal Richelieu’s right hand man and a self styled witch hunter are seeking to discredit Grandier, and determine to do so by accusing him of causing the convent to become possessed by the devil.

Why Haven’t You Seen It?
Recently, for no other reason than that the distributors, Warner Bros. (who sadly appear to hold the rights worldwide) don’t want you to. Because they’re scared. In 1971, The Devils was something of a scandal. In the UK it was cut by several minutes (more, apparently, in the US), cuts very obvious in the extant version of the film, but still the Festival of Light, the precursor to today’s Mediawatch made a cause celebre when Mary Whitehouse was its leader, took exception to it (not surprising really, as there are some truly vicious attacks on the Catholic Church… or at least on how they behaved in 1634… and the film’s ostensible hero, Gradnier, is a priest who busies himself with every woman he can, conceives a child out of wedlock and then marries in secret, and that’s not even the really contentious stuff).

The really contentious bit is the near legendary cut sequence referred to as ‘The rape of Christ’ (told you). Even if you have seen the film, you’ve never seen this, unless of course you’ve seen the Director’s Cut. A few years ago, UK film journalist Mark Kermode set out to help Russell restore The Devils, and actually found the missing footage, which was then cut into the film in preparation for a DVD release. This was more than five years ago. Not only has The Devils never been released in its full form, the last release of the longest generally available version was in 1997, on VHS. The only way you’ll see it now is if you’re lucky enough to catch the cut version (still a magnificent film) on TV or you are able to attend one of the festival screenings of the Director’s Cut, with Russell in attendance (I believe the last scheduled screening was canceled because Russell was unable to attend).

Hopefully Warners will see the light, and allow the film a proper DVD and Blu Ray release for its 40th anniversary next year, but since the heads of the Christian right in the US are liable to explode if they do, I wouldn’t hold your breath.

Why Should You See It?

If nothing else, it takes a film of enormous power to be seen, still, as such a contentious and dangerous work 40 years after it was made, but there is a great deal more than that to admire in The Devils.

Like all of Russell’s work of the period, The Devils is often astonishing to look at. Loudon is realised on a massive scale, and the Derek Jarman designed sets are, without exception, stunning. The real standout is the Ursuline convent, which is almost completely white, save for the crucifixes, the bars on the windows and the mortar between the white tiles, which accentuates the unusual shape of many of the rooms, giving the convent a real otherworldly feel. Outside Russell conjures great verisimilitude in his depiction of the period (during an outbreak of bubonic plague) like Paul Verhoeven’s Flesh and Blood this is a film whose stench you can almost smell as it plays. There are a plethora of memorable shots, few more so than Vanessa Redgrave’s entrance; she seems to float in, head unnaturally bent, just squeezing under a low archway.

Impressive as the visuals are, what really gives The Devils its power are the performances, most notably those of Oliver Reed and Vanessa Redgrave. Reed was never better, he’s perfectly cast as the fallen priest; a man who clearly takes much of his vocation very seriously, but can’t resist certain temptations. There are plenty of big speeches for Reed to bellow, and few do it as well, but he’s as effective, if not more so, in the quieter moments. He’s especially good (as is Gemma Jones) in the scene in which one of his parishioners makes a slip of the tongue at confession, and tells Grandier she loves him. The grandstanding in many other scenes would perhaps feel overblown in another film, but this one is on such a grand, even operatic, scale that it not only fits but is absolutely mesmerizing.

Vanessa Redgrave is perhaps even better than Reed. As Sister Jeanne she’s by turns creepy, pathetic and frankly pretty scary (look at the scene where she suspects Jones and Reed’s marriage, and claws at Jones through the barred convent window), but what’s most unsettling is how serene she seems much of the time, there’s a particularly creepy smile she has, and that, coupled with the way her head leans because of her hunched back, is really disconcerting. As the strange sexual madness that seeing Grandier seems to induce overtakes Jeanne, Redgrave goes all out, but she never forgets to seem just enough in control that there’s always a question of whether she’s in fact driving herself mad (certainly the scene in which she sees Reed as a Christ figure, and then begins to kiss him, would argue quite well for that) or whether there is pure, cold, malice behind her behavior. It’s a tightrope, and Redgrave walks it brilliantly. It’s not a surprise that she wasn’t nominated for an Oscar, but it ought to have been a scandal.

As a whole, The Devils casts a peculiar spell. It’s a film about the way religion can induce people to act destructively towards one another, it’s a film about belief to an irrational degree, but for me it is perhaps first and foremost a film about collective hysteria and madness, and that’s a feeling it captures with almost every frame. It is, as you’d expect from Ken Russell, never subtle, but it throws you headlong into this time and this place. It lectures you somewhat on what Russell makes of the morals of what happened in Loudon (it was bad, by the way) but it never hands you easy answers for any of it. It’s a great film, and deserves to be seen, but more than that it actually feels like an incredibly contemporary and relevant film; with the Christian right on the rise in the US and Muslim extremism a clear and present danger, what The Devils has to say about the intoxication of religion has really never seemed more interesting.

How Can You See It?
Well, like everything it is likely to be available online if you look hard enough. There is a Spanish DVD, apparently, but it is a 103 minute version (at PAL standard 25fps), compared to the 107 minute UK video. The 1997 Maverick Directors series VHS, then, would appear to be the print to have. You might wish to petition Warner for a proper DVD, even if it is just the extant cut, slapped on an Archive Collection release.