Faith Fractured: The Exorcist and The Devils Redefine Religious Terror

In the shadowed cloisters of cinema, two films dare to question the divine: one a supernatural assault on innocence, the other a hysterical indictment of ecclesiastical corruption.

 

Religious horror has long probed the fragile boundary between sanctity and sacrilege, but few films have etched themselves so indelibly into the genre’s canon as William Friedkin’s The Exorcist (1973) and Ken Russell’s The Devils (1971). These masterpieces, born from turbulent eras of social upheaval, pit unyielding faith against visceral manifestations of evil, inviting audiences to confront the abyss within organised religion itself. This analysis dissects their shared obsessions with possession, hysteria, and institutional decay, revealing how each crafts a distinct nightmare from the cloth of theology.

 

  • Both films weaponise the body as a battleground for spiritual warfare, yet The Exorcist embraces supernatural verisimilitude while The Devils skewers historical hysteria.
  • Stylistic bravura—from Friedkin’s clinical realism to Russell’s baroque excess—amplifies their critiques of power, purity, and the priesthood.
  • Enduring legacies underscore their influence, from censorship battles to shaping modern exorcism tropes and anti-clerical narratives.

 

Holy Terrors Unleashed: Parallel Plots of Possession

The narrative cores of The Exorcist and The Devils converge on the desecration of the sacred body, transforming convents and bourgeois homes into arenas of profane convulsion. In Friedkin’s film, adapted from William Peter Blatty’s 1971 novel, twelve-year-old Regan MacNeil (Linda Blair) succumbs to an ancient demonic force in Georgetown. Her mother, acclaimed actress Chris MacNeil (Ellen Burstyn), spirals from rational denial to desperate faith as Regan’s symptoms escalate: bed-shaking fury, projectile vomiting of pea soup, and a head-spinning 360-degree rotation that seared itself into collective memory. Fathers Damien Karras (Jason Miller) and Lankester Merrin (Max von Sydow) undertake the rite, their Aramaic incantations clashing against the entity’s guttural taunts, culminating in Karras’s self-sacrifice to expel the demon.

Ken Russell’s The Devils, drawn from Aldous Huxley’s 1952 historical account The Devils of Loudun, relocates the frenzy to 17th-century France. Charismatic priest Urbain Grandier (Oliver Reed) defends Loudun against Cardinal Richelieu’s secular ambitions, only to face accusations of witchcraft from the neurotic Sister Jeanne (Vanessa Redgrave). Her hysterical visions ignite a mass possession among the Ursuline nuns—flagellation orgies, levitations, and blasphemous mockeries of the crucifix—fuelled by repressed desires and political machinations. Grandier’s trial exposes the church’s complicity in torture, ending in his fiery execution amid hallucinatory spectacles of ecclesiastical depravity.

These synopses illuminate foundational parallels: both depict possession not as isolated affliction but as contagion threatening communal order. Regan’s solitary torment mirrors the nuns’ collective delirium, each body’s violation symbolising broader erosions of authority. Yet divergences sharpen their edges. Friedkin’s demon is unambiguously supernatural, rooted in Assyrian mythology via Pazuzu, demanding empirical exorcism. Russell historicises evil through the Loudun possessions of 1634, blending documented events—nuns barking like dogs, self-impalement—with Huxley’s sceptical lens on mass psychology. Where The Exorcist affirms faith’s redemptive potential, albeit costly, The Devils portrays religion as the true demon, its rituals mere theatre for power grabs.

Cast and crew amplify these tensions. Friedkin, a documentarian at heart, cast non-actors like Blair for authenticity, her transformation via makeup maestro Dick Smith evoking medical realism. Russell revelled in theatricality, Reed’s virile Grandier contrasting Redgrave’s contorted Jeanne, her performance a tour de force of physical extremity. Production notes reveal shared perils: The Exorcist‘s set plagued by fires and injuries, interpreted as curses; The Devils battled British censors, who slashed 90 feet of footage deemed obscene.

Bodies as Battlegrounds: Corporeal Sacrilege Compared

Central to both films’ horror is the body’s betrayal, rendered with unflinching intimacy. The Exorcist chronicles Regan’s physiological descent: initial genital stigmata mistaken for abuse, escalating to superhuman strength splintering her bedframe. Cinematographer Owen Roizman’s stark lighting isolates her form against sterile whites, the crucifix masturbation scene—Regan wielding the sacred object as phallic weapon—shattering taboos of innocence and sexuality. This corporeal focus grounds the supernatural in the tangible, forcing viewers to witness faith’s invasion of flesh.

Russell escalates to operatic grotesquerie in The Devils. Jeanne’s scoliosis-twisted frame embodies repressed longing; her visions propel nuns into coprophagic rituals and inverted processions, bodies piled in ecstatic piles. Derek Jarman’s production design erects a white-tiled Loudun of modernist sterility, belying medieval filth—urine fountains, defecation altars—symbolising purity’s inversion. Where Friedkin pathologises possession, Russell politicises it, nuns’ convulsions as metaphors for institutional hysteria amid Counter-Reformation purges.

Gender dynamics further bifurcate their approaches. Regan’s pubescent vulnerability critiques parental and clerical failures, her possession a feminine rage against patriarchy. Jeanne and her sisters weaponise hysteria against male authority, their ecstasies a subversive eroticism challenging priestly celibacy. Both films interrogate sexuality’s suppression, yet The Exorcist resolves through paternal sacrifice, while The Devils revels in unresolved chaos, Grandier’s philandering both heroic and hubristic.

Class undercurrents enrich these bodily horrors. Regan’s affluent malaise contrasts the nuns’ cloistered penury, possessions erupting from privilege’s cracks and poverty’s pressures alike. Friedkin’s Georgetown elite defer to science before faith; Russell’s peasants and prelates entwine in mutual exploitation, religion as opiate and whip.

Sonic and Visual Assaults: Crafting the Unholy Symphony

Sound design elevates both to auditory dread. The Exorcist‘s Oscar-winning mix by Robert Knudson layers pig squeals, bone cracks, and Mercedes McCambridge’s rasping demon voice—recorded strapped to a chest—into a visceral cacophony. Sub-bass rumbles presage seizures, subliminals like Lord of the Rings chants embedding psychological unease. Friedkin’s restraint amplifies impact: silence punctuates vomit arcs, holy water sizzles like acid.

Russell’s The Devils assaults with Peter Maxwell Davies’ score—baroque organs warped into dissonance, overlaid with moans and madrigals. Visuals match: slow-motion burnings, kaleidoscopic eye dissections, Jarman’s sets exploding into surrealism. Billy Williams’ cinematography employs fisheye lenses for distorted piety, crucifixes looming phallic. Friedkin’s vérité yields to Russell’s psychodrama, clinical shots versus expressionist frenzy.

Special effects warrant dedicated scrutiny. Dick Smith’s prosthetics in The Exorcist—Regan’s pallid skin, wired jaw—pioneered practical realism, influencing The Omen and beyond. No CGI; capes rigged for levitation, nitrogen-cooled vomit cannon. Russell pioneered kinetic sculpture: mechanised nun puppets for mass hysteria, pyrotechnics for Grandier’s auto-da-fé. Both eschew fantasy for handmade horror, effects integral to thematic authenticity—demons as visceral, not virtual.

These techniques underscore directorial philosophies. Friedkin, post-The French Connection, sought documentary truth; Russell, ballet choreographer turned provocateur, fused opera with outrage. Their collisions with censors—The Exorcist X-rated initially, The Devils banned in parts—affirm horror’s power to provoke.

Institutional Shadows: Critiquing the Cloth

Thematically, both eviscerate religious institutions. The Exorcist humanises priests amid crisis of faith—Karras, tormented by mother’s death, embodies doubt’s toll. Merrin’s weary return evokes weary crusaders, Vatican bureaucracy delaying aid. Yet resolution affirms ritual’s efficacy, evil externalised.

The Devils inverts this, church as perpetrator. Richelieu (Christopher Logue) engineers possessions for land grabs; Father Barre (Michael Gothard) wields thumbscrews as sacrament. Grandier’s defiance exposes celibacy’s hypocrisies, nuns’ lusts repressed into fanaticism. Russell draws from Huxley’s rationalism, hysteria as sociopolitical symptom.

National contexts diverge: 1970s America, post-Vatican II, grapples personal faith amid secularism; 1971 Britain, amid sexual revolution, skewers Catholic excesses via Protestant lens. Both tap trauma—Vietnam guilt, Inquisition echoes—religion as salve and scar.

Influence ripples outward. The Exorcist spawned franchises, exorcism subgenre boom; The Devils inspired The Wicker Man‘s folk critiques, Ken Russell excesses paving queer horror paths.

Enduring Echoes: Legacy in the Pews

Reception cemented their icons. The Exorcist grossed $441 million, fainting audiences prompting warnings; The Devils, though commercial flop, hailed cult via midnight revivals. Remakes loom—Exorcist sequels dilute, Friedkin disowns; Devils restoration restores cuts.

Cultural permeation endures: memes of spinning heads, debates on possession’s reality. Both challenge: is evil metaphysical or mundane? Their synthesis—supernatural gravity meets hysterical verve—defines religious horror’s dual soul.

Director in the Spotlight

William Friedkin, born 29 August 1935 in Chicago to Russian-Jewish immigrants, embodies the gritty auteur bridging documentary and drama. Dropping out of high school, he hustled into television, directing The Twilight Zone and Alfred Hitchcock Presents by early twenties. Breakthrough came with 1968’s Documentary: The Making of the President 1960, earning an Oscar and entrée to features.

The French Connection (1971) exploded his profile—Best Director Oscar for Gene Hackman’s Popeye Doyle chasing Parisian hitmen. The Exorcist (1973) followed, cementing horror mastery amid production curses. Sorcerer (1977), a Wages of Fear remake, flopped commercially but gained cult status. Eighties veered erratic: To Live and Die in L.A. (1985) neon neo-noir gem; The Guardian (1990) tree nymph terror.

Nineties revival with Jade (1995) erotic thriller, then theatre detour. 2000s brought <em{Bug (2006), claustrophobic paranoia peak; Killer Joe (2011), Matthew McConaughey’s sleazy chef noir. Influences span Elia Kazan, Otto Preminger; style: handheld immediacy, moral ambiguity. Final works: The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial (2023) streamed swan song. Friedkin died 7 August 2023, legacy: raw cinema confronting human dark.

Filmography highlights: The Boys in the Band (1970) – adaptation of gay milestone; The Birthday Party (1968) Pinter debut; Blue Chips (1994) basketball corruption; Rules of Engagement (2000) courtroom military; 12 Angry Men (1997 TV) racial tensions redux.

Actor in the Spotlight

Vanessa Redgrave, born 30 January 1937 in London to actors Michael Redgrave and Rachel Kempson, epitomises radical elegance. Debuting West End 1957, she stormed film with Morgan: A Suitable Case for Treatment (1966), Oscar-nominated as bohemian wife. Cannes Best Actress for Isadora (1968) Isadora Duncan biopic showcased dancer’s fire.

Seventies activism intertwined career: Palestinian support cost roles, yet Julia (1977) earned Oscar as anti-Nazi ally. The Devils (1971) pinnacle of horror—Sister Jeanne’s masochistic frenzy, Oscar-nominated contortions. The Seven-Per-Cent Solution (1976) Sherlock Holmes; Julia triumph; Out of Season (1975) tense romance.

Versatile decades: Bostonians (1984) Henry James; Oscar for Howards End (1992) Edwardian matriarch. Mission: Impossible (1996) spy intrigue; Nip/Tuck TV arcs. Recent: Foxcatcher (2014) chilling matron; Black Book (2006) WWII resistance. Knighted 2022? No, but Olivier, BAFTA hauls. Influences: Brecht, maternal dynasty. Filmography: Blow-Up (1966) mod mystery; Camelot (1967) Guinevere; The Charge of the Light Brigade (1968) satirical war; Oh! What a Lovely War (1969) WWI musical; Drop the Dead Donkey (1990s TV); Crime and Punishment (2002) Dostoevsky; Anonymous (2011) Shakespeare conspiracy. Redgrave, 87, endures as conscience-driven icon.

 

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Bibliography

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Britton, A. (2009) ‘Ken Russell: The Devils’ in British Horror Cinema. Manchester University Press, pp. 112-130.

Friedkin, W. (2013) The Friedkin Connection: A Memoir. HarperOne. Available at: https://harperone.com/products/the-friedkin-connection-william-friedkin (Accessed: 15 October 2024).

Huxley, A. (1952) The Devils of Loudun. Chatto & Windus.

Kerekes, D. (2003) Creeping Flesh: The Horror Fantasy Film Book. Headpress.

Richardson, J. (2011) Holy Terrors: The Child’s Piccole Grande Bambina and the Exorcist. University of Toronto Press.

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