The final act of the film is where Berger makes his boldest choices. Without spoiling the core twist, it is sufficient to say that Conclave refuses the easy resolution of closure.
Romil Udayakumar TNV
Edward Berger’s Conclave (2024) is not simply a film about a papal election. It is an
intricately layered psychological chamber piece, a cloistered political thriller, and a
deeply human meditation on faith, power, and memory. What distinguishes
Conclave from its potential genre clichés is its solemn pace and precise visual
language, merging narrative economy with operatic emotional undertones.
This is cinema
of containment: physically restricted to the walls of the Vatican yet spiritually vast,
vibrating with the suppressed anxieties of its characters and the burden of their celestial
responsibilities. In adapting Robert Harris’s novel, screenwriter Peter Straughan pares
down exposition, trusting the tension of performance and mise-en-scène to articulate the
emotional gravity of the story. What emerges is a film that both honors the reverence of its
setting and dissects the fragile architecture of human morality beneath the ornate robes of
religious ritual.
The narrative of Conclave is deceptively simple: following the sudden death of the Pope, 118
cardinals are summoned to Vatican City to elect his successor. At the center of this process
stands Cardinal Lawrence (Ralph Fiennes), the Camerlengo—a steward of the Church
during the sede vacante, or papal vacancy. As the conclave proceeds under centuries-old
protocols, a revelation about the late Pope’s final decision begins to unfold, threatening to
rupture the delicate political equilibrium within the College of Cardinals. Yet rather than
veering into overt melodrama, Berger’s film simmers with quiet, disquieting restraint. It is a
film about secrets—not just institutional, but personal and theological—and the unbearable
weight of their concealment.
Fiennes delivers what may be one of the most internalized performances of his career. As
Cardinal Lawrence, he is gaunt, cerebral, and ever-watchful. His voice, often a mere whisper,
is modulated with the solemnity of liturgical chant. There are no dramatic outbursts, only
the slow accumulation of moral burden etched into every twitch of his brow. Lawrence is a
man forged by the Church but now haunted by its contradictions. He moves through the
frescoed corridors like a ghost, as if already burdened by the penance he knows he must
eventually pay. In a lesser actor’s hands, Lawrence could have become a cipher—a vessel
for ecclesiastical exposition. But Fiennes imbues him with a tragic dignity, a Job-like figure
confronting the unbearable silence of God amidst the politics of men.
The genius of Berger’s direction lies in how he frames these performances within a
rigorously symmetrical visual style. Working with cinematographer Stéphane Fontaine,
Berger evokes the painterly solemnity of Renaissance tableaux. Every shot is composed
with near liturgical precision: cardinals arranged in radial patterns, long dolly shots down
marbled hallways, high-angle views that render the Sistine Chapel as both prison and altar.
The camera rarely moves fast; instead, it glides with a reverent steadiness, as if afraid to
disturb the sacred air. The visual austerity is not merely aesthetic—it reflects the moral
paralysis of the Church itself, a body incapable of swift motion, burdened by centuries of
self-imposed ritual.
Yet this is not a static film. Beneath the calm veneer, Berger choreographs a psychological
dance—a cloaked battle of ideologies, egos, and hidden pasts. The casting is impeccable:
Stanley Tucci as the charming yet calculating Cardinal Bellini, John Lithgow as the aging,
conservative Tremblay, and Sergio Castellitto as the steely Roman traditionalist Cardinal
Petrucci. Isabella Rossellini, in a hauntingly silent role as Sister Agnes, adds a spectral
counterpoint to the masculine world of the conclave. Her few scenes punctuate the film like
incense—ethereal, fleeting, but essential to the atmosphere.
Volker Bertelmann’s score is sparse and ecclesial, constructed around choral motifs and
organ flourishes that echo through the film like liturgical responses. But more often, Berger
leans into silence, allowing the creaks of antique wooden doors, the shuffle of cassocks, and
the Latin invocations to carry the sonic weight. The absence of music in key scenes forces
the viewer into contemplative stillness. It is, in effect, a sonic meditation that mirrors the
film’s thematic concerns: faith thrives not in noise, but in silence.
One of the film’s most impressive accomplishments is its resistance to cynicism. In an age
where political thrillers often delight in exposing institutional rot, Conclave dares to
acknowledge complexity. Yes, there is maneuvering, backroom deals, whispered
confidences. But these are not presented as corruption per se. Rather, they are shown as
human responses to impossible dilemmas. Berger does not indict the Church as much as he
lays bare its frailty. The cardinals are not villains; they are men imprisoned by legacy, by
guilt, by the fear that they may be unable to lead a modern world.
And yet, at its heart, Conclave is also about memory—and the violent struggle between
personal history and institutional continuity. As Cardinal Lawrence confronts the revelation
left behind by the late Pope, the film’s narrative structure bends inward. We are offered
glimpses of Lawrence’s past, rendered not through flashback but through affective montage:
a shift in lighting, the tilt of a chalice, the echo of a distant voice. These memory shards
speak to a deeper psychological truth—how the past lives within the body, how it finds its
way to the surface despite the strictures of control.
The final act of the film is where Berger makes his boldest choices. Without spoiling the core
twist, it is sufficient to say that Conclave refuses the easy resolution of closure. The smoke
may turn white, but the soul remains grey. In a breathtaking final sequence—silent, slow,
sacred—Berger offers a vision of the Church not as triumphant, but trembling. It is here that
the film's true genius is revealed: it transforms what could have been a political thriller into
a theological meditation. It becomes a passion play without resurrection, a sacred drama
that ends not in revelation, but in moral ambiguity.
Cinephiles will no doubt find rich intertextual resonances. Conclave evokes the cloistered
paranoia of Sidney Lumet’s Twelve Angry Men, the ascetic minimalism of Robert Bresson’s
Diary of a Country Priest, and the dark institutionalism of Costa-Gavras’s Amen. Yet it also
carries a distinctly modern energy, grounded in the post-clerical anxieties of the 21st
century. Berger’s Vatican is not merely a setting—it is a symbol of humanity’s broader
struggle with tradition, truth, and transcendence.
What makes Conclave so fascinating is its refusal to comfort. Unlike The Two Popes (2019),
which found reconciliation through dialogue, or The Godfather Part III (1990), which used
the Vatican as an allegory for moral compromise, Conclave does not resolve the
contradictions it presents. It simply lays them bare, like relics on an altar. The viewer, like
the faithful, is left to discern their meaning. And in this, the film becomes an act of
devotion—not to any doctrine, but to the complexity of human conscience.
Indeed, the power of Berger’s vision lies in his attention to cinematic ritual. Every gesture in
the film is imbued with meaning: the casting of ballots, the burning of paper, the donning of
vestments. These are not merely plot mechanics; they are sacraments, visual prayers that
rhythmically structure the narrative. In this way, Conclave becomes a liturgy in itself—each
scene a homily, each cut a responsorial psalm. It is rare to find a film so comfortable in its
own solemnity, so unafraid to take its time. But time, like faith, is what Conclave demands.
The final image—a figure alone in the papal chambers, silhouetted against Michelangelo’s
Last Judgment—lingers long after the credits. It is an image that encapsulates the film’s
paradox: that divine authority must always wrestle with human fallibility. In this tension
lies the true subject of Conclave: not just who will lead the Church, but what it means to lead
at all.
For those attuned to cinema as an art form, Conclave offers a rich field of study. Its editing
rhythms mirror Gregorian chant; its color palette (all golds, crimsons, and funeral blacks)
evokes both Rembrandt and Caravaggio. Its narrative progression unfolds like a symphony
in four movements: the introduction of themes (arrival), their development (deliberation),
the rupture (revelation), and the coda (election). Berger’s achievement lies in orchestrating
this complexity without sacrificing emotional resonance.
Conclave is not a film that seeks to please everyone. It is austere, patient, and
unapologetically intellectual. But for the viewer willing to enter its world—not just
watch it, but contemplate it—it offers something increasingly rare in modern
cinema: a profound, unsettling encounter with the sacred and the political, the
personal and the universal. Like the best spiritual experiences, it leaves you with
more questions than answers. And that, perhaps, is its greatest success. For in a
world eager for clarity, Conclave insists on the holiness of doubt.
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