The Devils (1971)

The Devils is the kind of fearless, full-throttle cinema that feels less like a period drama and more like a fever dream about power—how it’s seized, sanctified, and weaponized. Ken Russell stages 17th-century France with baroque beauty and savage momentum, turning politics, faith, and desire into a single, crackling spectacle, anchored by Oliver Reed’s defiantly human priest and Vanessa Redgrave’s unforgettable portrait of obsession and repression. It’s shocking, yes, but the provocation has a purpose: the film’s horror comes from watching institutions dress cruelty up as righteousness, and how easily a crowd can be coached into certainty. Not for the squeamish or the devoutly sensitive—its violence and sexualized blasphemy are intense—but if you can meet it on its own terms, it’s a bracing, audacious classic that still feels dangerous to watch.

Ken Russell’s The Devils is clearly trying to be a furious, anti-authoritarian scream about how religion and politics can weaponize sex, shame, and public spectacle—and it doesn’t do “subtle” for a single second. The problem is that its message comes wrapped in such relentless, lurid provocation (sexualized hysteria, sacrilege, cruelty, and grotesque pageantry) that many viewers will feel bludgeoned rather than enlightened, and the occasional humor can land as tone-deaf instead of satirical. If you’re sensitive to explicit sexual content intertwined with religious imagery, or you prefer historical dramas that build dread through restraint rather than excess, this will likely feel more exhausting than illuminating. Still, it’s undeniably bold, visually striking, and anchored by committed performances—so if you want a confrontational, boundary-pushing descent into institutional madness, it delivers exactly that.