The Devils
The path to God is anything but simple, made all the more treacherous when confronted with phenomena like this. Moments in which the Church itself succumbs to sin, transforming into an instrument of domination—more a gateway to power than a path to redemption. How are we to seek God when His own house is corrupt? Or is it merely the fault of dastardly men, blinded by their thirst for power, doomed to sin for eternity?
Where does spirituality stand amidst such institutional corruption? What has become of the rotting souls of these sinners? Has God forgiven His children for being surrounded by symbols and rituals meant to glorify Him?
There is no greater sin than to defile the word of God—least of all with violence and torture. But is Grandier a martyr, or simply another victim of a system that weaponizes faith to justify brutality?
Likewise, one cannot deprive human beings of what is natural to them, of that which makes them human. If society represses its own, denying them the joys of the flesh, what will become of them? Madness will take hold of their bodies, but not before suffocating them slowly, dragging them into a spiral of resentment. Hypocrisy festers, growing stronger as those in power condemn the very thoughts that plague their own minds.
For power blinds, clouds judgment, and paves the way for injustice. The town watch, the town remain silent. The town do not think; they only crave spectacle. They applaud the most foolish rhetoric and the vilest of sentences without so much as a moment’s reflection. Bread and circuses, as they say.
From a cinematic standpoint, The Devils is nothing short of exquisite. Ken Russell’s direction is masterful, embracing an excessive, almost baroque style, with a visual approach that leans into the grotesque and the theatrical. His dynamic, angular camerawork heightens the sense of chaos and delirium, while crowd sequences are choreographed with an almost operatic grandeur, dripping in exaggerated drama. Close-ups are wielded masterfully, capturing intense expressions and the raw hysteria of the characters.
Derek Jarman’s production design blends brutalism with deliberate anachronisms, emphasizing the artificiality of the story while reinforcing its sense of timelessness. Loudun itself is a sterile, geometric, and oppressive space—its cold rigidity a stark contrast to the filth and moral decay of its inhabitants. The film’s interplay between vast, empty spaces and claustrophobic visual clutter further enhances its theatricality.
The cinematography is equally meticulous. The lighting is striking, creating stark contrasts between light and shadow, resulting in imagery that feels almost painterly. The use of color is particularly compelling: pristine whites dominate Grandier’s attire and certain settings, underscoring his purity and defiance against chaos. Deep, saturated reds flood the screen during moments of violence, passion, or possession, while darkness reigns over the scenes of torture and trial, reinforcing the brutality of these events.
The film oscillates between moments of measured restraint and sheer, unhinged hysteria, mirroring the clash between religious repression and uncontainable madness. Abrupt cuts punctuate scenes of violence, refusing to let the viewer settle into a comfortable rhythm, while the possession sequences are edited with a frantic, disorienting energy that intensifies the film’s overwhelming sense of chaos.
Possibly my favorite performance to date, Oliver Reed—whom I already admired in The Brood (1979)—delivers an iconic portrayal. His presence is magnetic, his delivery both charismatic and measured, serving as a sobering counterpoint to the frenzied performances that surround him. The way he moves through the spaces, the cadence of his voice, the weight of his words—it’s simply captivating. The rest of the cast, too, delivers unforgettable performances, with each of the principal characters, both Grandier and his adversaries, being fully realized and compellingly portrayed.
Finally, I must highlight some of the smaller yet equally remarkable details that left a lasting impression on me: the striking makeup, the bold and original costume design, the meticulous set pieces, the immersive atmosphere of hysteria and chaos that Russell crafts so brilliantly, and, of course, one of the most controversial sequences in the film—The Rape of Christ. A staggering piece of social critique, one that ignited the fury of the Vatican and remains one of the most audacious moments in cinematic history.