Ken Russell 1927 – 2011
by Ben Bussey
When we talk about contemporary extreme cinema, we always seem to be most concerned with pinpointing the films which we percieve to be pushing the boundaries; the ones that challenge everyday preconceptions about what is and is not acceptable, be it on a social, sexual, political, spiritual, moral, ethical and/or ideological level, or preferably some combination thereof. When films and filmmakers come along that appear to do so, we have a tendency to act as though it’s something new.
Ken Russell did it all, and most of it over four decades ago.
Some class him as an auteur and a visionary; others purse their lips and bemoan that he was too preoccupied with being a provocateur; others still dismiss him as a drama queen. My own opinion of the filmmaker and his work has shifted through all three over time. There’s no question that his films were not to all tastes; this much is clear from how the scale of his films went down over time, and how his level of output drastically reduced to the point that he was as good as retired from the 90s on. To many his films are just too bombastic, too loud, too brash, too hey-everyone-look-at-me. But this much is certain; regardless of whether you enjoy it, a Ken Russell film commands audience attention. There’s no chance of glazing over and sleepwalking through it. The viewer is engaged, alert and involved for the duration, and always aware that it’s a Ken Russell film they are watching.
It is admittedly tricky to summarise his career without making it sound like a shopping list of censor-baiting exercises. Mention Women In Love and the first thing anyone thinks of is Oliver Reed and Alan Bates wrestling naked. Mention The Devils and we picture screaming nuns tearing off their habits and breaking into an impromptu orgy atop a statue of Christ. Crimes of Passion? Kathleen Turner butt-fucking a cop with his own nightstick. Lair of the White Worm? Amanda Donohoe painted blue with an alarmingly sharp-looking wooden dildo strapped to her crotch. We could go on, no doubt.
Whether all this was simply shock value for its own sake is of course open to debate, but like it or not Russell really did present things the like of which had never been seen on film before. In so doing, he definitely had a key role to play in forging the more open, experimental climate that made the 70s so pivotal a decade in film history. And while not all of his work holds up so well (from the 80s on in particular), he is responsible for some true classics that changed the face of cinema, for Britain and beyond.
It’s a crying shame that so many will know him only as some mad old bloke who was on Big Brother a few years ago. We can but hope that small bit of contemporary noteriety can pave the way to a revived mainstream interest in his films. Now, with a DVD release of the long-withheld The Devils coming from the BFI in March (albeit still not in an uncut form, with the pivotal Rape of Christ sequence infuritatingly excised), hopefully more will realise that beyond the mad old public figure he became, there was a truly unique and groundbreaking filmmaker.
Russell was 84 years old. His son told the press today, “my father died peacefully, he died with a smile on his face.”
Give ‘em hell, Ken.
