Intricate and lush in texture, its cinematography (by Stéphane Fontaine) finely tuned to the liveliest detail in frame, directed almost as a ballet, and performed with thespian virtuosity by an all-star cast, director Edward Berger‘s triumphant Conclave (2024) is pure cinema. Its script airtight, intelligent, playful, and subversively camp, written by Peter Straughan, of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011) and Wolf Hall (2015-2024) fame, and based on Robert Harris‘s bestselling 2016 novel of the same name — a template serving perfectly as a baroque map to its labyrinthian intrigue.
And intrigue there is, abound, in the eternal city of Rome, and of an ancient kind, when Ralph Fiennes‘s somber, sharp, and sensitive Cardinal-Dean Thomas Lawrence finds himself organising the conclave after the passing of his beloved mentor, a progressive and wise pope. This undesired, heavy duty of overseeing the selection of the new supreme pontiff sees him turning full ‘true detective’, running into a thicket of political machinations and conspiracy amidst the collage of cardinals, all gathered from across the globe to the Vatican — aiming to choose the most worthy of them, but likely settling for much less.
Lawrence is partial to the liberal Cardinal Aldo Bellini, from the US, played by the wonderful Stanley Tucci, with the best humble-brag game it town, but it seems that the conservative forces, wishing for a more “Latin” church, personified in the grand figure of the Italian reactionary Cardinal Goffredo Tedesco (a fabulously vaping Sergio Castellitto), have been gaining solid ground amongst the church officials. Nevertheless, it is the jovial (and homophobic) Cardinal Adeyemi, from Nigeria, acted with gusto by an empathic Lucian Msamati, that is rising in popularity, although the evidently shady Cardinal Tremblay (a beautifully villainous John Lithgow), might yet win the day — despite rumours that he was dismissed from office on the very evening the noble Pope died.
And so on. As philosopher Slavoj Žižek would amusingly (and inevitably) say.
In all that political razzmatazz, playing out like a breathless thriller, a highly important ritual of the Catholic Church is taking place, with chess pieces set in motion, every detail antiquated and non-negotiable, amounting to fascinating peek into a proceedings so thoroughly shrouded in secrecy. So to add necessary gravitas to an atmosphere rapidly resembling a fraught US election, with backroom deals, back-stabbing, lobbying, hallway meetings, agitated whispers, and assorted gossip, we are introduced to the mysterious, mystical figure of Archbishop Vincent Benitez of Kabul, whom the Holy Father made cardinal in an incognito decree, with a biography chock-full of missions in the most war-torn areas on Earth, and inhabited soulfully by Carlos Diehz. And, boy will you find his particular narrative twist astonishing.
Which is as far as I will go in spoiling this delicious silver-screen box of gourmet chocolates.
In short, every popular cardinal candidate is potentially marred with irreversible scandal, and has a personal agenda, sometimes even unbeknownst to themselves. A brilliant Fiennes, as Lawrence, finally admitting how he would wish to be named if he were elected Pope, is a masterclass in character reveal (it’s John). Yet, balancing out all the splendid diva energy, is perhaps the central figure of the entire drama, hidden and essential, Sister Agnes, the no-nonsense head nun running the noisy household show, the silent power behind the scenes. Isabella Rossellini, as Agnes, steals the entire picture when she finally speaks.
The whole film, in truth, a profound and refined analysis of masculine-feminine roles and stereotypes.
All these varied ingredients could have made a terrible dish if the alchemy of them went even slightly awry, especially considering the somewhat contorted, fittingly operatic ending, and explosive interludes (literally), even despite possibly the most lavish, aesthetically flawless production design (Suzie Davies) in recent years (cardinal red meets marble white), subtly mirroring Bernardo Bertolucci‘s iconic The Last Emperor (1987) in its panoramic vistas. It is the dry humour colouring its elegant script, the zany indie logic the director applied to this epic tale, and the contemporary spirit of actors refashioning (yet respecting) its ur-traditional setting, that prevented Conclave sliding into yet another mainstream prestige drama, and made it such a fulfilling, fascinating, and inevitably controversial watch, emphasising the uncertainty of faith over the finality of dogma.
Bravo, to everyone, all up to the final scene — the turtles, the laughing nuns, and white smoke rising.
★★★★★
Author: ©Milana Vujkov
Lola On Film 