Robert Harris: Conclave | The Culturium

The power of God, the ambition of men

“‘I thought it wiser not to eat with the cardinals. I ate in my room. At the eleventh ballot I was elected Pope. O Jesus, I too can say what Pius XII said when he was elected: “Have mercy on me, Lord, according to thy great mercy.” One would say that it is like a dream and yet, until I die, it is the most solemn reality of all my life. So I’m ready, Lord, “to live and die with you”. About three hundred thousand people applauded me on St Peter’s balcony. The arc-lights stopped me from seeing anything other than a shapeless, heaving mass.’”
—Pope John XXIII, diary entry, 28th October 1958,
quoted in Robert Harris, Conclave

ORDINARILY, I’M NOT a great fan of thrillers, probably because I am a literary snob, and yet I was blown away by Robert Harris’ masterful novel (born 7th March 1957), Conclave, which has recently been adapted into a stylish and sumptuous movie, directed by Edward Berger (born 6th March 1970) and starring Ralph Fiennes in the lead. The recipient of numerous awards, the film depicts the fictional election of a new pope, sometime in the near future, structured around the ecclesiastical politics and prelatical manoeuvrings that we have come to expect within the confines of the Vatican and the Catholic Church itself.

On the whole, the film is faithful to the novel, with the exception of the heritage of the principal protagonists. In the book, the logistical “manager” of the proceedings is the Italian cardinal, Jacopo Lomeli, who is renamed as British Thomas Lawrence, aligning him with Fiennes’ superlative casting. Similarly, Vincent Benitez, who is a Filipino cardinal serving in Baghdad (the book was written in 2016), is reimagned as a Mexican cardinal stationed in Kabul, Afghanistan, emphasizing not only the current political world climate but also his outsider status and the perils of missionary service abroad.

Inevitably, various factions and shifting allegiances emerge upon the brotherhood’s sequestration, which can become a little confusing in places to say the least but which can be summarized as follows: the Traditionalists/Conservatives (represented by Cardinal Aldo Bellini, played by Stanley Tucci); the Liberals/Progressives (Cardinal Joshua Adeyemi); the Political Opportunists (Cardinal Goffredo Tedesco); the Outsiders (Cardinal Vincent Benitez); and the Moral/Spiritual Voice (Cardinal Jacopo Lomeli/Thomas Lawrence). [Gentle reader, the clues are in their names.]

Amidst the patriarchal congregation, it is the character of Sister Agnes (formidibly played by Isabella Rossellini), who brings the gentle, humanizing element to the story, as well as symbolizing the quiet, humble labour of all the women behind the scenes, keeping the domestic and administrative aspects of the conclave holding together. Furthermore, her illicit intercession as the drama unfolds towards its climax serves as a pivotal point in the plot.

Edward Berger, Conclave - The Culturium — © Edward Berger, *Conclave*

Needless to say, Conclave is not merely a political spectacle but also a moral tableau exploring deeper themes pertaining to cultural tradition, ethical integrity, the loneliness of high office and man’s (and woman’s) relationship with God. Indeed, as we traverse the oscillating psychological states of Lomeli/Lawrence’s spiritual conscience with every nuance rippling through his facial features, we come to understand that even if someone is deeply religious, they are still prone to the pride, temptations and anguish of their secular counterparts, arguably more so.

Such impassioned emotions are borne out by the film’s aesthetic palette of primary colours—ominous black, bloodthirsty red, luminous white, serene blue—counterpointed against Michelangelo’s majestic frescoes of the Sistine Chapel. The musical score, deftly composed by Volker Bertelmann (reminiscent of the soundtrack for Martin Scorsese’s Silence by Kim Allen Kluge and Kathryn Kluge), also adds a further layer of artistic complexity, signifying growing tension and underlying secrecy, often at odds with the film’s visually beautiful and historically rich location in Rome.

Like all good narratives, the motif at its very heart explores a perennial paradox, not only specific to the tenets of Catholicism but also life itself, particularly in our contemporary culture. In a key passage, the issue of diversity is examined, brilliantly expounded by Tedesco, who makes a case for delivering a homily in Latin, rather than in the vernacular, in order to illustrate the point that by being inclusive of all languages (English, Italian, Spanish, native dialects of Nigeria, etc.), linguistic communication becomes nigh impossible. By retaining the use of a so-called dead language, commonality of lingual expression becomes elementary if one is to maintain unity—and thereby inclusivity—within a universal church.

In other words, diversity, in its noble attempts to include everyone, effectively ends up alienating the very people it wishes to embrace: “… change almost invariably produces the opposite effect to the improvement it is intended to bring about,” says the Opportunist Italian cardinal. Indeed, in today’s society, hell-bent on giving everyone a voice no matter their ideological persuasion, the will of the minority is often at the majority’s expense.

Interestingly, in a week when the British Supreme Court ruled that transgender women are not legally women, the film’s central trope becomes acutely apposite. Without giving too much away, one of the central characters considered for the papacy is discovered to have been considering surgery to correct “a fusion of the labia majora and minora, and a clitoropexy” (in the film, the procedure is reinterpreted as a “laparoscopic hysterectomy”). In other words, the cardinal concerned was assigned female at birth, though has been identifying and living fully as a man.

At first, I felt the denouement to be a little preposterous. It reminded me of another novel written by the 18th-century Gothic author, Matthew Lewis, whose The Monk explores similar themes, in that one of the central characters, Rosario, is actually a woman called Maltida, disguised as an ascetic in order to infiltrate an all-male monastery. But whereas Lewis’ protagonist uses gender identity as a disguise for deceit and seduction, Harris’ intersex invention is portrayed with empathy and depth.

Such revelations, moreover, serve to challenge the Church’s traditions and rigid dogma, highlighting the foundational Christian belief of loving one’s neighbour as oneself, the ultimate act of inclusion, acceptance and living as one in the body of Christ. Indeed, Lomeli’s rousing pre-conclave homily in St Peter’s Basilica, albeit delivered in English, embodies the very essence of Jesus’ teaching, leading to the only possible outcome of the conclave’s papal vote.

‘My brothers and sisters, in the course of a long life in the service of our Mother the Church, let me tell you that the one sin I have come to fear more than any other is certainty. Certainty is the great enemy of unity. Certainty is the deadly enemy of tolerance. Even Christ was not certain at the end. “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?” He cried out in His agony at the ninth hour on the cross. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Our faith is a living thing precisely because it walks hand-in-hand with doubt. If there was only certainty, and if there was no doubt, there would be no mystery, and therefore no need for faith.’

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The power of God, the ambition of men

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