It is longer than ancient empires, but also than parliamentary monarchies and modern, prestigious and constantly threatened democracies and republics. It is also much more so than its spiritual rivals who were on the verge, in the 16th century, of overthrowing it, and it is, for the moment, more so than the disgraceful dictatorships or totalitarian and autocratic systems that do not stop proliferating around the planet and that seem to be replenished with oxygen almost without rest for almost a century now. It is the Catholic Church and its two or so millennia of history. Nothing more than this mathematical paragon makes it perfectly understandable that the imagination finds so attractive its secrets, its hermetic mechanisms, its solid foundation in tradition, the complex and almost inextricable structure of its power structures, the extraordinary way it usually finds to make changes and that everything remains the same, or the preservation of his majesty, beyond his architecture, theological and ceremonial eminences or his admirable Vatican.
From there – I have the presumption – comes the proliferation of novels and films about exorcisms, demonic nuns, mysterious convents, thorn birds, Decamerons, Canterbury Tales, historical incidents and more recently, literary and box office bestsellers in theater and cinema. , about conspiracies, corruption, opacity and excessive tolerance towards scandals of a sexual nature, some less motivated by curiosity and fascination than by non- confessed bad intention. We all love to be told a juicy mystery and nothing is more enigmatic and magnetic than the sacred mystery of the Catholic Church.
With all this, we are once again confronted by the magnificent film by Edward Berger, who has gone from the oppressive and devastating atmosphere of the First World War to his All quiet on the front 2022 to the solemn austerity and secrecy of the most private rooms of the Vatican this year. Conclave which has already competed for awards at the Golden Globes and is emerging as one of the favorites in the race for the Oscar, and which has suffered an unexpected and difficult to explain delay for its release in Venezuelan theaters.
The fictitious bowels of the Vatican
From the global shock that the death of a Pope still generates, especially after the recent and exceptional resignation of one, Robert Harris creates a novel of suspense and conspiracy -precisely because it is about what no one, beyond the curia, Vatican, really knows what it is and how it happens -, transposing the conflicts of the contemporary world with its political correctness, inclusion, the fight for communication transparency, the so-called progressive agenda facing the dark conservatives, and the global threat of terrorism to the cloister volunteer in which the ecclesiastical prelates are secluded to choose a successor to the throne of Saint Peter.
It is one thing to fictionalize it in a novel, no matter how much documentation is collected and transmitted, than to recreate it visually. This is where I believe the marvelous work of Berger lies, who creates a staging supported by the fascinating photography of Stéphane Fontaine, the scrupulous production design and art direction of Suzie Davies and Roberta Federico, the imposing costumes and sets of Lisy Christi. and Cynthia Sleiter, and of course, in the almost impeccable script by Peter Straughan, contrasting austerity with an expertly dosed panoramic spectacle of the Vatican (its vast and marble staircases, its colonnade, its windows, its Sistine Chapel) a strong expressive value, which floods with credibility with a certain documentary rhythm, the film from beginning to end, and lastly, but not without forgetting its unprecedented hierarchy , strongly supported by an acting work that goes from the personal to the choral with extraordinary pulse and brilliance. The sequence of the declaration of the death of the Pope, the photography and lighting of the meetings of the groups of prelates in the auditorium with blue seats, the scene of the confrontation of Dean Lawrence (the role of a superb Ralph Fiennes) with the Cardinal Adeyemi, the meeting of the three liberals on the stairs of the building of the curia rooms, and particularly that of the installation of the Conclave, from Lawrence’s homily to the black smoke They are constructed with masterful detail and even moments of cinematic virtuosity.
The performances, commanded by the deep work, built from silences, introspections, contained gestures, the effective variations of his tones of voice, of Ralph Fiennes, the undisputed cornerstone of the film, include scenes that allow the main cast to shine. : the guilt of Lucian Msamati as Adeyemi, the powerful vehemence of Sergio Castellito as Cardinal Tedesco, the haughty arrogance of Stanley Tucci as the standard bearer of progressives who sees enemies everywhere, the intensity of the silent presence (until it stops being so) of Isabella Rossellini as Sister Agnes, superior of the army of sister servants of the curia, and even the least benefited in the dramatic distribution by the predictability of her character , Cardinal Tremblay by John Lithgow, has appreciable moments, and they build a solid, tense film, which almost without us understanding how it magnetizes us to the screen as if we were in a fast-paced thriller.
Berger and the turtle symbol
Like most of my colleagues at the time of writing about this ConclaveI have my serious reservations about the ending of the film, surprising without a doubt, but drifting between the absurd, the incoherent and the delirious. It is there that Straughan’s scriptural work reveals its flaws, in doing it so obviously at the last minute, with almost no greater meaning than to disconcert us, regardless of the weakness of its foundation or dramatic reason. Very similar to a police film where a character that we have not seen participate in the plot is revealed to us as the murderer.
Leaving aside the intertwined issues such as the corruption and simony of the Church, the extreme conservatism regarding the distribution of the roles of the sexes in its hierarchy as well as the issue of celibacy of its members and the problems that this entails in the complicit tolerance in cases of pedophilia and sexual harassment, and the debates between liberals and traditionalists in the intrigues of the election of a pontiff, are in perfect context, barely overstated and absolutely credible. From the speech exalting the uncertainties of Dean Lawrence to the independence of the Church from the tradition of Cardinal Benítez, almost at the end, there is an ocean of principles, convictions, theories and theologies, difficult to assimilate by our peremptory daily life. But above all, they are congruent pieces of the creation of a fiction, which can reflect the buried magma of an institution at the same time that, however, continues to jealously guard its deepest secrets, and in this lies its mystery, its strength, its attraction and what makes it an coveted fantasy for storytellers and filmmakers eager and in need of intense unknowns.
I think that Berger’s view is much closer to these insoluble unknowns than to the immediate climate of a bestseller. I think your Conclave will not require a Director’s Cut. Beyond the sensationalist resolution of the plot, the true ending of the film lies in its epilogue: with the dazzling multipurpose symbolism of the turtle that Lawrence contemplates and takes in his hands as he bianca smokesand elevates the world. The turtle is evolution and heaviness, hindrance and inner advancement opposed to visible human movement (its mythical rival is Achilles, the one with light feet), and in several mythologies, among them that of our Warao ancestors, they support the weight and are a vehicle of the sun whose transit establishes time. This, together with the curtains that open by themselves illuminating the dean’s room and the young nuns coming out through the portals to the garden that he can see through his window, proposes a much more intelligent and enriching reading than the apparent sensationalism of his outcome.
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