Some films are too dangerous for their own time. Ken Russell's The Devils was too dangerous for every time—until now.

Warner Bros. has finally allowed the uncut version of Russell's 1971 masterpiece to screen publicly at the Cannes Film Festival, 55 years after it was buried in the studio's vault. The controversial "rape of Christ" sequence—excised from every version that's ever been released—will be seen for the first time since Russell completed it.

For context, The Devils was already shocking in its theatrical cut. Based on Aldous Huxley's The Devils of Loudun, it depicted religious hysteria, sexual obsession, and political corruption in 17th-century France. Oliver Reed and Vanessa Redgrave gave career-defining performances in a film that was banned in several countries and heavily censored in others.

But Russell shot even further. The excised sequence features Redgrave's Sister Jeanne in a full-blown hallucinatory breakdown involving religious iconography and sexual imagery. It was too much for Warner Bros. in 1971, and apparently too much for every executive since.

Until someone at the studio decided that five decades was long enough.

The Cannes screening is a small miracle, but it's also a reminder of how fragile film preservation can be. For years, rumors circulated that the footage had been destroyed. Russell himself died in 2011, never seeing his complete vision restored. That we're getting it now is partly luck, partly the advocacy of film historians, and partly the reality that what once seemed transgressive now just seems like art.

It's also a reminder of Russell's unique genius. He made films that offended everyone—critics, censors, religious groups, sometimes even his own collaborators. But he never compromised. The Devils, even in its butchered form, remains a landmark of British cinema: operatic, blasphemous, and utterly unafraid.

Whether modern audiences will appreciate it is another question. Russell's films don't play by contemporary rules—they're excessive, theatrical, and often deliberately ugly. But that's the point. He was making arguments in celluloid, and arguments aren't meant to be comfortable.

The Cannes screening won't lead to a wide theatrical release—Warner Bros. isn't that brave—but it's a start. And for cinephiles who've spent decades hearing about the legendary lost footage, it's a chance to finally see what all the fuss was about.

Fifty-five years is a long time to keep a secret. Maybe some secrets deserve to see the light.