All the prayers were fine, but I really needed some guy in a trench coat and sunglasses, preferably with a big, bushy moustache, to step into the room and briskly approach the bed. During the ensuing silence, he locks eyes with Ralph, inhales deeply, and says: Dis Pope’s dead.
“We’re mortal men. We serve an ideal. We cannot always be ideal.” As a study in the politicization of “the top seat” or ‘throne’ in a religious order, Conclave unfolds like a juicy little psychodrama, yet beyond the soap opera-level surprises and plot twists, it’s ultimately about a conflicted man’s struggle between duty and decency. It’s a respectful and perhaps even accurate portrayal of “small, petty men” who unfortunately wield a tremendous amount of influence even as younger generations have begun to turn their back on the antiquated, often bigoted and hateful doctrines of Catholicism. The film smartly acknowledges the “problems” and Edward Berger’s latest is never less than engrossing, if also on-the-nose when it comes to the “lapses” of these very mortal and very fallible men. The ladies are cool, though. When Isabella’s got your back, everything’s gravy.
Who would’ve thought electing a pope was like choosing the homecoming queen? It’s all about sitting at the cool cardinal’s table and who’s got the most friends in frocks. I’d hate to see a bunch of those old fuckers form a cheer squad and make a human pyramid for the pep rally. Buncha gossipy old fogies getting into spats and jockeying for leverage is a sight to behold within the hallowed walls of the Vatican and Peter Straughan’s screenplay isn't deadly serious, but it certainly goes for dramatic heft when necessary. Berger’s direction is crisp and stately with marvelous framing at several baroque locations. A flock of white umbrellas scuttling across a cobblestone plaza is marvelous and reminiscent of snow descending upon the moors. The claustrophobic setting of the sequester has an intriguing forbidden quality; as if we’re glimpsing the inner workings of a secret society which, in a sense, we are. Rituals and traditions feel authentic, so I’ll just take their word for it.
One couldn’t ask for a more able cast and watching heavyweights like Fiennes, Lithgow, and Tucci spar is satisfying as all get out. Reliable supporting players like Msamati. Castellito, and the mysterious Diehz all have their moments to shine and Berger keeps the proceedings grounded even during very public spats and accusatory luncheons. It wears its importance on its sleeve and it's tempting to grant Conclave the dramatic austerity it desires, but it ends up an engaging, if slight depiction of an electorate for an increasingly inconsequential figurehead.
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