Released a decade earlier than Ken Russell's The Devils, yet functioning as a spiritual successor of sorts, Jerzy Kawalerowicz's Mother Joan of the Angels also bases its story around the 17th century Loudun possessions to interesting effect, especially when taking into consideration the vast stylistic differences that define each film.
Where Russell exposed the ugliness of this tale of unholy devotion through farce, allowing his characters to writhe around in all the filth and hypocrisy that defined the period, Kawalerowicz created a world where the peasants, nuns, and clergymens' mindsets were treated as frankly as it may have been for those residing in it, unaware of any other reality besides their own. It was documentation not through historical hindsight but by retracing the footsteps that led to its foregone conclusion. Russell's maximalism replaced with Kawalerowicz's minimalism. Vibrant colors traded in for textural black and white. Psychosexual phantasmagoria replaced by emanations of a slowly corruptive force.
If a directors' execution could be grouped by an imaginary school of thought, these two men may as well be rivaling factions. Rusell's proximity to Alejandro Jodorowsky in stylistic technique equals the vastness that may group Kawalerowicz to Frantisek Vlacil when tackling the same subject matter. And yet, both films are masterfully done despite their radical departures in approach.
With Mother Joan of the Angels, Kawalerowicz showcases the temptation, elation, and destructive power that blind devotion could manifest. A thin margin separating spiritual ecstasy from cardinal desire. A nudge made in either direction holding the power to change a pillar of sanctity into one accused of sacrilege. The same kind of thin margin that separates the physical space between a nun and priest, bound by an unspoken unison. It's either sainthood or sinner. Any system defined by that sort of dogmatic rule is a house of cards waiting to topple.
An honest meditation on faith and its inescapable fight with the world that surrounds it, Kawalerowicz's Mother Joan of the Angels has cult-classic status written all over it. All it's missing is its faithful congregation.
Where Russell exposed the ugliness of this tale of unholy devotion through farce, allowing his characters to writhe around in all the filth and hypocrisy that defined the period, Kawalerowicz created a world where the peasants, nuns, and clergymens' mindsets were treated as frankly as it may have been for those residing in it, unaware of any other reality besides their own. It was documentation not through historical hindsight but by retracing the footsteps that led to its foregone conclusion. Russell's maximalism replaced with Kawalerowicz's minimalism. Vibrant colors traded in for textural black and white. Psychosexual phantasmagoria replaced by emanations of a slowly corruptive force.
If a directors' execution could be grouped by an imaginary school of thought, these two men may as well be rivaling factions. Rusell's proximity to Alejandro Jodorowsky in stylistic technique equals the vastness that may group Kawalerowicz to Frantisek Vlacil when tackling the same subject matter. And yet, both films are masterfully done despite their radical departures in approach.
With Mother Joan of the Angels, Kawalerowicz showcases the temptation, elation, and destructive power that blind devotion could manifest. A thin margin separating spiritual ecstasy from cardinal desire. A nudge made in either direction holding the power to change a pillar of sanctity into one accused of sacrilege. The same kind of thin margin that separates the physical space between a nun and priest, bound by an unspoken unison. It's either sainthood or sinner. Any system defined by that sort of dogmatic rule is a house of cards waiting to topple.
An honest meditation on faith and its inescapable fight with the world that surrounds it, Kawalerowicz's Mother Joan of the Angels has cult-classic status written all over it. All it's missing is its faithful congregation.