The Devils – reissued finally!

Link to article with trailerThe Devils (uncut version), dir. Ken Russell
Music composed by Peter Maxwell Davies
BFI, 23rd November 2004

The 1970s may well go down in the annals of British film history as the most heavily censored decade of any. Ken Russell’s The Devils, first screened in 1971, was the first of four major early seventies films to suffer at the hands of the British Board of Film Classification (the other three being Sam Peckinpah’s Straw Dogs, also released in 1971, William Friedkin’s The Exorcist, in 1973, and Pier-Palo Pasolini’s Salo in 1975). In terms of how censorious British classifiers were, the figures from those years speak volumes: in 1971, 20.6% of films submitted for classification required cuts, or were banned, in 1973 30.7% and in 1975 30.4%. The year that required the most cuts to films was 1974, where 33.9% were cut in some form. Compare that with the past couple of years and the trend is revolutionary: in 2002, 3.4% were cut, in 2003 1.9% and this year (so far) just 0.6%*.

The Devils differs from the other films I mention in that it did not suffer an outright ban. But it did require cuts, though even today those cuts are surrounded by confusion. The United States release of the film was more savagely censored than the UK release, something that Mike Bradsell, the film’s editor, believes to have been caused by concern from American financiers appalled by Russell’s depiction of depravity and blasphemy. In contrast, the UK release, at least on Warner Bros. video in 1997, had many of the US cuts reinstated, and is the most complete version to have (there is no UK DVD release). The screening of the film at the BFI on Tuesday went one stage further by restoring the two most controversial scenes which Russell cut from The Devils in 1971: the ‘Rape of Christ’ scene, an orgy of maniacal blasphemy that begins with the tearing down of a crucifix and ends with nuns masturbating and copulating over it, and the ‘charred bone’ scene at the film’s close which shows Vanessa Redgrave’s Sister Jeanne kissing a bone from Father Grandier’s burnt body and then masturbating with it (off screen). Minor frame cuts – to Grandier’s torture, and to certain scenes of nudity, for example – have not been restored because they have been irrevocably lost, but what we now see is as perfect a vision of Russell’s film as is likely to be the case.

Thirty years on the film is still able to shock, and its contemporary relevance has remained undiminished. Russell, who later called The Devils his only political film, created less an image of religious blasphemy, rather one that really showed the corruption that existed between state and church. It is easy to see, in retrospect, that Father Grandier’s death has less to do with his own shortcomings as a priest and more to do with the fact that Loudun, under Grandier’s rule, is a political problem for Cardinal Richelieu’s policy of tearing down the defences of any town that poses a threat to the Catholicisation of France. At the beginning of the film the bricks of the town’s walls are being torn down one by one; at the end of the film the walls are literally blown to pieces, the destruction of priest and Loudun now complete, the triumph of church over state. A superficial triumph, as Russell sees it.

Based on Aldous Huxley’s 1953 book, The Devils of Loudun, Russell’s film remains, at least in terms of fact, quite close to what Huxley recounts. Yet, the film itself – its production values, its photography and its direction – seems more influenced by Huxley’s later book, The Doors of Perception, written in 1954, describing Huxley’s own experiments with the drug mescaline, and the transcendental and psychedelic effect the drug had on him. In one sense, Russell is able to keep us on track with his dispassionate analysis of the religious frenzy which grips the town of Loudun (and it is hard not to see that Russell may in some way have been influenced by Arthur Miller’s The Crucible, since the characters of Trincant in the film and Reverend Parris in the play are remarkably similarly characterised); but in other ways, Russell’s vision of how events unfold – the centrepiece of the film being the nuns’ desecration of the cross of Christ – seems intent on giving us a Brechtian sense of detachment, deflecting attention from the real theme of possession. William Friedkin was to view possession in The Exorcist slightly differently from the way Ken Russell does in The Devils, with Russell eroticising it and Friedkin demonising it.

In part, this is why The Exorcist has never caused difficulty for audiences or censors in the United States and Russell’s film has. Just as Derek Jarman’s sets give us an image of spectacular decadence in the convent, especially with the arrival of the King (just before the Rape scene), so Russell optimises that on screen decadence with scenes of lesbianism, self-flagellation, masturbation and nude orgies. The question Russell asks of his viewer is not to see his vision as blasphemy, but for us to see what he is portraying as blasphemy. The subtlety is important, since when you see the public blasphemy of the nuns (and the priests who masturbate at the image of it – Father Mignon, for example,) simultaneously against the private communion of Grandier, the sensitivity of Russell’s direction falls into place. The challenge Russell throws up by eroticising the possession of Sister Jeanne and the nuns is one that goes beyond a period-bound religious fundamentalism, and that is what makes the film so relevant 30 years after it was made. Seventeenth century religious extremism can seem almost identical to twenty-first century religious extremism: the Catholic terror that Richelieu supplants to Loudun is identical to the Islamic terrorism that fundamentalists supplant to Western democracies. Is this partly why, in a post 9/11 USA, Russell’s The Devils is still viewed as disturbing and unpalatable?

Russell’s way of visualising erotic possession challenges the boundaries of Catholic tonality today, as it did in 1971, but so many of this groundbreaking film’s master-strokes are to do with the expressionist way in which it is made. Derek Jarman creates a blanched, pure beauty in the form of the town of Loudun – white walls hint at a place untouched by religious intolerance, and they are seen to be both internal and external, of the soul and of the flesh; only at the end of the film do we see it for what it really is: a holocaust of smashed bodies, crushed, grey brick and defeated faiths. Rather than crucifixes lining the Apian Way, Russell shows us instead a landscape of windmill-like wheels with bodies crucified upon them. The opulence of the court – with Richelieu dressed in Cardinal red – suggests that the devils of Russell’s title may not be the devils we are actually seeing in the convent, and this is implicitly confirmed during the exorcism itself when it is shown to be what it is – an act of deception. Father Barre’s belief that the phial contains Christ’s blood is seen to be an illusion, the driving of the devils from the nuns nothing more than a hollow religious rite. Filmed as it is, with gyrating camera angles, and crash-zoom shots, Russell sweeps us into a vortex of frenzy which matches that of the hysteria of the nuns; only the natural beauty of Grandier’s communion separates God from Godlessness, and only in the uncut version of the film does this all finally make sense. Similarly, the moment when Sister Jeanne picks up Grandier’s charred bone and caresses and then kisses it – before finally masturbating with it – do we genuinely see an emotional penitence in her character that has hitherto been missing. In the cut version of the film, her lack of penitence leaves the ending of the film unsatisfactorily incomplete.

Matching Jarman’s and Russell’s vision of plague mysticism, exorcism and torture is Peter Maxwell Davies’ incendiary film score. Both violent and brooding, it catapults between extremes, often within the same scene: Sister Jeanne’s vision, for example, is frenzied, yet resolves itself into medieval chant; the exorcism is accompanied by music of extreme violence, and concludes in prayer and Grandier’s execution (by burning) is hysterical and torturous, and ends with a solitary postlude on flute. The sound generated by Maxwell Davies’ scoring belies the orchestral forces used: the instrumentation is minimalist, often single instrument, and principally woodwind and percussion including suspended cymbals, temple gong, wood blocks, chains, bamboo whistle, thunder-sheet, tam-tam, marimba, grater, rubber plunger in water, large bass drum, cycle wheel, blackboard (scraped with fingernails), knife and plate. It is this which gives the film the added terror that Russell’s visual images only partly convey. The changes of mood and timbre, achieved as much by varying the recording technique as they are by the players of The Fires of London, reflect closely the isorhythms of both composer and director.

Russell’s films can be validly criticised for their director’s lurid sensationalism, but as with so many of his films (The Music Lovers, Mahler and Women in Love, for example) the acting can often be seen as a virtue. Russell gets outstanding performances from both Vanessa Redgrave, as the hunch-backed Mother Superior, and Oliver Reed as the tortured (metaphysically and literally) priest, Father Urbain Grandier. The supporting cast is also excellent – Dudley Sutton’s Baron de Laubardemont, Gemma Jones’ Madeleine, Georgina Hale’s Phillipe and a sublimely comic performance from Brian Murphy as Adam. Michael Gothard’s Father Barre send shivers down the spine.

The new cut of the film, lasting now for some 111 minutes (against the previously known longest running time of 107 minutes,) has been cleaned up well, with the only noticeable deterioration being in the final scene of Sister Jeanne where the quality of the celluloid is rather speckled. Sound-wise it is still spectacular. Part of the purpose of this screening (which was only announced as the uncut version by the curator of the BFI’s two-month long horror season, Mark Kermode, moments before the film began) was to ‘test the water’ with the public to see whether there was any antipathy towards it. Greeted with cheers at the end, it seems finally that Ken Russell’s masterpiece of horror may finally see a UK DVD release as it was always intended to be viewed.

Marc Bridle

[Not rated]

*Figures from BBFC.

Yet more Devils (or a lack of them):

The longest version of The Devils is the widescreen video release that Warner Bros. issued in the UK in 1997. Currently unavailable, it can nevertheless be requested from Amazon. Readers should avoid the currently available US version (whether on video or DVD) since it is heavily censored.

Aldous Huxley’s The Devils of Loudun is also currently unavailable, although Vintage are to publish a new print in April 2005. Despite being unavailable, Amazon has a number of copies of the book available second hand.

Krzysztof Penderecki’s 1969 opera The Devils of Loudon does not appear to have been commercially recorded either, although live recordings from several international premieres may exist.

An excellent resource for information on both film and director is Savage Messiah.

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.