Finding cut scenes is not simply a matter of making a film longer. It can shift its centre of gravity, restore ambiguity to a character or re-establish the link between two ideas. The return of The Devils, directed by Ken Russell in 1971, raises precisely this question: what have we seen of a work when, for decades, its circulation has depended on different versions?
The photograph shows an old projector: an illustration of cinematic heritage, unrelated to the filming or restoration of The Devils.
Starring Oliver Reed and Vanessa Redgrave, this British drama revisits the affair of the Loudun possessions. Its return to cinemas deserves more than the label of a scandalous film. We need to disentangle the historical facts, their transformation into cinema and the work of restoration. This documentary-style presentation draws on classification archives and information from the institutions and cinemas cited; it is not a review based on watching the film in full.
A re-release, but which version are we talking about?
The BFI announces a 114-minute 4K restoration, presented as faithful to Russell’s choices, and a UK release on 30 October 2026. In France, the Grand Action is also screening a 1 h 54 version, with screenings advertised in 4K. This information establishes that the restoration is genuinely being shown. It does not prove that every cinema, country and home-video edition offers exactly the same cut.
The distinction matters when we encounter the words “complete”, “restored” and “director’s cut”. The first suggests completeness; the second describes work on the available materials; the third refers to a version associated with the director’s intentions. These terms answer different questions. A restored image does not, by itself, guarantee that every shot once removed has been found.
In the case of The Devils, the BBFC provides a crucial clarification: the version submitted in 2026 restores material in two sequences, but other material removed in 1971, including violent content, is presumed lost. The restoration therefore broadens access to the film without erasing all the gaps in its history.
Loudun: an accusation led to an execution
The central facts are documented. Urbain Grandier, a priest in Loudun, was convicted and executed on 18 August 1634. The town’s historical record recalls local rivalries, tensions over royal power and the accusations made during exorcisms. It also places his opposition to the destruction of the castle in the context of Laubardemont’s intervention, as Richelieu’s envoy.
These points make it impossible to reduce the affair to a supernatural anecdote. People claimed to be possessed; authorities investigated an accusation of witchcraft; a conviction was handed down. These are three distinct levels. The existence of the testimonies and the trial does not prove the existence of the alleged demonic phenomena.
Caution is also needed in the other direction: turning every protagonist into a character whose motives we know perfectly would be to manufacture a new certainty. A documented rivalry does not give us access to every private intention. When watching a film inspired by an old affair, this distinction is fruitful: it leaves fiction room to interpret, while preventing us from mistaking its dramatic power for historical proof.
Between the archive and Russell, several perspectives
The film does not move directly from the court record to the screen. The BBFC notes its links to Aldous Huxley’s book, published in 1952, and John Whiting’s play. This succession of forms matters: an essay, a play and a film do not have the same means or the same space in which to develop a contradiction.
Cinema can convey in a face or a succession of shots what a book examines over several pages. In return, an actor’s presence, the music and the editing immediately shape our perception. Recognising this mediation does not invalidate the adaptation. It gives the adaptation its artistic responsibility: it offers an interpretation; it does not place an archival document before the viewer.
The credits listed by the Grand Action clarify this collaborative work: Oliver Reed plays Grandier, Vanessa Redgrave plays Sister Jeanne; the sets are by Derek Jarman, the cinematography by David Watkin and the music by Peter Maxwell Davies. For anyone discovering the work, these names open up specific lines of enquiry. How does the setting organise power relations? What does the music make us hear? How far away does the frame place the viewer? These are questions of perspective, not qualities that can automatically be attributed to the film before seeing it.
Censorship was not the work of a single actor
The history traced by the BBFC complicates the image of a director facing a single censor. In 1971, Warner and the British body each called for cuts. Some requests overlapped; others did not. A modified version subsequently received a British X classification. For US distribution, further cuts secured an R rating.
The same words on a poster could therefore refer to different experiences. This question goes beyond the amount of nudity or violence retained. Removing a passage also affects transitions, connections between characters and the space given to an idea. Without a shot-by-shot comparison, it would be wrong to claim here the exact effect of each cut. But it would be just as reductive to regard the minutes removed as mere sensationalist extras.
For a reader who already knows the film, the practical point is therefore to identify the version they saw: country, format and edition. The memory of an old screening is not enough to establish what the current restoration contains.
How to prepare for your screening without having the film told to you
Three checks will make the experience clearer. First, consult the cinema’s listing for the version, language, subtitles and running time. Next, distinguish classification information from promotional language. Finally, leave the cinematic ending to be discovered: knowing Grandier’s historical fate does not tell you how Russell constructs his story.
Age ratings should be read in relation to the territory and screening concerned. The French CNC register consulted lists a ban on under-16s for certificate 38790; the BBFC classifies the 2026 British version for ages 18 and over. One country’s classification should not be mechanically converted into another’s. The film contains sexual content, nudity and violence: its heritage re-release does not make it suitable for a family screening.
The best way in, then, is through a dual curiosity: an interest in Loudun, to understand what made the accusation possible, and an interest in cinema, to observe what a director chooses to make of it. The restoration offers a new opportunity for this encounter. Its value is measured neither by the scandal of 1971 alone nor by the number of minutes recovered, but by the chance to view an artistic proposition in a more clearly identified version.
