CONCLAVE
Cast: Ralph Fiennes, Stanley Tucci, John Lithgow, Lucian Msamati, Carlos Diehz, Sergio Castellitto, Isabella Rossellini.
Director: Edward Berger
120 mins.
Faith and religion tend to be internalised in such intangible and romantic terms that its sometimes easy to overlook the inherent clash between the two. Where the former is a solitary and primal response to the mysteries of existence, the latter is an institutionalised, often political set-up with rules and traditions devised for the masses. In addition, where there is politics, there are often secrets, an inevitable hunger for power, and less-than-ethical means to attain it. A searing and impeccably designed Vatican procedural with today’s global political climate so obviously on its mind, Edward Berger’s Conclave is juicily perched at the intersection of this conflict between faith and organised religion. A gradually swelling, deeply intellectual and political thriller, Berger’s film takes the audience behind the notoriously secretive closed doors of the Catholic Church for one of its most private processes: the election of a new pope. Adapted from Robert Harris’ novel by Peter Straughan Conclave begins on the day of the sitting pope’s unexpected death. Berger and his Director of Photography Stéphane Fontaine lens the mournful proceedings with relentless precision—a blend of immersive long takes and cuts—until the pope is finally in a body bag, reinforcing the defining quality of the film that we’re about to see: artful, exceptionally well-choreographed, inch-by-inch exactness. In Berger’s studious and elegant hands, every ceremoniously cast vote, reaction image, severely worn regalia and quietly eventful meal that the cardinals share is packed with breathless, skin-prickling suspense. That temperament is escalated by Oscar-winning composer Volker Bertelmann’s gorgeous and formidable strings that slyly switch between staccato beats and restless cadences. There is also humour amidst the bureaucratic machinations—just picture a sternly garbed cardinal operating a loud, classy espresso maker in the holiest and most old-fashioned of settings.
The election process, which goes multiple rounds over the course of several days, begins before we can even deliberate whether there is foul play in the pope’s untimely death (him being a man with various liberal viewpoints, unpopular with some). Overseeing the ritualistic conclave where all cardinals below a certain age are allowed to vote is Cardinal Lawrence (a quite magnificent Ralph Fiennes of silent inner battles, delivering one of his career-best performances), the dean of the College of Cardinals. Lawrence’s faith has been in crisis. Aware of that aforesaid conflict between his faith and the institution that he serves—the Catholic Church has a notoriously ill reputation on various accounts, from cases of sexual abuse to links to Nazism, and Lawrence reveals that he had actually resigned to the late pope, only for his resignation to be declined. Now, he just wants to complete his final duty and face an uncertain future. There are several serious candidates for the new pope, led by the outspokenly liberal Cardinal Bellini (Stanley Tucci), the scheming Trembley (a fiery John Lithgow) who is rumoured to have had a mysterious meeting with the pope shortly before he died, the proudly conservative Tedesco (Sergio Castellitto), and the volatile Adeyemi (Lucian Msamati), who’d become the first Black pope if he could sidestep his questionable past. With each passing day and unsuccessful vote, the front-runners reveal themselves in shocking ways, bringing the morality of their respective pasts into questioning. Observing on the margins is the placid and wise humanist Cardinal Benitez (Carlos Diehz, wonderful in his debut feature film performance), just recently appointed to the College by the late pope under enigmatic circumstances, all the way from Kabul (an unusual placement for a Catholic). And because there is no room for women in major roles within the infamously patriarchal and sexist ranks of the church, a scene-stealing Isabella Rossellini (playing the vigilant Sister Agnes and chillingly similar to her late mother Ingrid Bergman) is also amongst those silently watching from a distance. In one understated scene, it doesn’t escape Agnes that Benitez, in his prayer, remembers to thank the Sisters for tirelessly preparing the meal they’re about to enjoy, quietly conveying with her wordless reaction that this gratitude for women isn’t a common occurrence in the church. Across various glorious Cinecittà sets in Rome—one of which brings to life the breathtaking Sistine Chapel—multiple spoken languages, minimalist designs of colour contrasts, deliberately twirly camera moves, and a loving attention to detail in sound design, Conclave
approaches its shocking and beautiful denoument with utter conviction - and it’s not toothless in its principles: throughout the film’s strictly interior world, the reminders of the horrors and heartbreaks of the outside remain very present, with suicide bombs, explosions, and instances of maddening intolerance taking place frequently. Conclave dreams of a kinder, bigger, and more inclusive version of the world—a world where doubt and faith go hand in hand, where one doesn’t have to choose between bad and worse, and absolutism is a sin. Conclave is stunning in every possible sense.
Cast: Timothée Chalamet, Edward Norton, Elle Fanning, Monica Barbaro, Boyd Holbrook, Scoot McNairy, Dan Fogler, Norbert Leo Butz, P.J. Byrne, Will Harrison, Eriko Hatsune, Charlie Tahan, Ryan Harris Brown, Eli Brown, Nick Pupo, Big Bill Morganfield, Laura Kariuki
Director: James Mangold
2hrs. 21mins.
The Bob Dylan of A Complete Unknown isn't so much a character as he is an idea, an ideal, and a mystery to everyone around him. Co-writer/director James Mangold's film starts as a biography of the man's early career—the stuff of music myth and cultural legend, really. Before too long however, the filmmaker lets us know that he has bigger things in mind than just recounting the first years of Dylan's fast rise to stardom and his controversial decision to go electric. The film's Dylan, played by Timothée Chalamet, isn't nearly as complicated or enigmatic as the character presents himself, and that's what makes the film such a rich and tricky piece to dissect. He looks the part of the travelling troubadour, who comes from nowhere special but compensates for that with just how genuinely special his music is, and the musical purist - who has so much to say and such passion for saying it that he absolutely must put it into song. Mangold and co-writer Jay Cocks, adapting Elijah Wald's non-fiction book, see right through that here. Part of Dylan's appeal was that he seemed to come out of nowhere and into the folk music revival of the 1960s, when all anyone needed to make music was a guitar and a voice. People already knew the traditional folk songs, and even popular-folk pioneer Woody Guthrie's tunes were becoming the stuff of tradition, too. When Dylan showed up in New York City in 1961, Guthrie's "This Land Is Your Land" might as well have been written a hundred years ago, instead of just 20, for as quaint as it probably seemed in the face of a Cold War, the civil rights movement, and more wars being fought around the world after two world wars seemed to promise an end to them.
This film contextualises all of that—the politics, the music, the cultural and social battle between scepticism and idealism—within the insulated world of the New York folk scene of the early 1960s. To look at this as a biography of Dylan, even if it does follow his career trajectory from '61 to his controversial plugged-in performance at the Newport Folk Festival in '65, is to perceive it incorrectly. Mangold lets us know this almost from the beginning, too, because Bobby, as the character calls himself initially, is just part of a wider cast of characters within that scene. Meanwhile, the narrative's beats are less about what Bob, as he'll prefer to be called soon enough, and his fellow musicians do and more about the music they play. Indeed, the film is pretty much wall-to-wall music, either the actual performances of songs, in the studio and on various stages across the country, or the constant writing and discussion/debate and simple taking in of those songs. The actors here perform the material themselves, taking on the famous musicians they're playing, but also with notions of the story in mind. Some may scoff at the idea of actors trying to replicate the likes of Dylan, Joan Baez, Peter Seeger, and Johnny Cash, but to do so also seems to be missing the point. Isn't the tradition of folk music, as stated a couple of times here, that these songs belong to everyone? Why not give new generations a taste of them by way of some different and newer voices?
Chalamet does a very convincing Dylan, while also injecting the songs with what the film's Bob wants of them in the moment. Playing Baez, Monica Barbaro possesses a similarly angelic voice, which stands nicely in contrast to how no-nonsense Joan is when confronted with Bob's barely disguised ego, and Edward Norton's Seeger plucks his banjo and croons with such aw-shucks sincerity that it is genuinely affecting as the young man he partly discovers and helps to become famous, gradually breaks his heart and destroys his dreams. What's really fascinating about the portrayal of Dylan here, is how he exists as a contradiction even within the film's own estimation of him. On the one hand, he's the man who revolutionises and comes to personify the best qualities of the period's folk revival, worthy of all the esteem and adoration the faces in the crowd and backstage shine upon him whenever he's performing. Peter and Woody (Scoot McNairy), who's slowly dying in the hospital for the entirety of the story, get a taste of Bob's promise when the young man from Minnesota shows up to Woody's hospital room, tells the man how much his music has meant to him, and plays the pair a song he wrote for the folk legend. The rest of the story is pretty much the stuff of its own legend at this point, and Mangold smartly treats it as such, moving from one performance to the next, one private scene of Bob keeping friends and lovers and colleagues at a distance to another, and some detail of history to more. The cinematography by Phedon Papamichael replicates the feeling of 1960s New York, while also evolving along with the character—the brightness of the streets, filled with plenty of aural business on the soundtrack, and the warm glow of underground folk clubs accompanying Bob's first year or so transforming into the dim, neon glow of those same streets and the chilly spotlights of bigger venues as the singer becomes frustrated by being stuck to one genre. There are hints of the other side of Bob, the one that takes over the second half, in the early parts of the film. They're mainly in his romantic relationships with Joan and artist Sylvie Russo (Elle Fanning), both of whom can see Bob for his hidden ambitions and his refusal to attach himself to anything or anyone but can't change how his music makes them feel about him. The turning point of the film's depiction of Bob Dylan comes with his performance of "The Times They Are a-Changin'" at the festival in Newport in '63, as Sylvie realises she has lost him to undeniable celebrity status and the fans, singing along with the chorus as if they've heard the song their entire lives. As for Bob, he fixes his usually stoney face behind his harmonica at the song's end, in order to hide the smile of knowing real fame has finally come his way. In other words, Mangold gives us plenty of reasons to admire Dylan, even as the narrative itself, which is so entrenched in the hope and the potential for social good coming out of the folk movement, gradually turns him into a sort of villain for the very scene that made him. A Complete Unknown is no mere, straightforward biography. It's a melancholy ode to an era filled with strife, a movement filled with optimism, and a man who defined the music, only to upturn it all. The times may change, but generally, people don't.