CONCLAVE

While neither exactly an action thriller nor an ensemble docu-drama, Conclave is nonetheless a terrific caper which is unlikely to do the Roman Catholic church much if any harm. Taking place in the Sistine chapel and amongst the austere environs of Saint Peter's, Rome, the plot revolves around the process to elect a new Pope following the unexpected death of the incumbent, who bears a passing resemblance to Pope John XXIII. Before the obsequies have even been completed however, there are strong hints of skulduggery afoot, although the plot devices (including the arrival of an unexpected guest) owe more to Agatha Christie than to Raymond Chandler.

Amid the foreboding and dimly lit gloom, the role of master of ceremonies falls to Cardinal Thomas Lawrence, Dean of the College of Cardinals. This is played by Ralph Fiennes in a performance which is both nuanced and compelling. At the film's heart is the elucidation of his mental journey from reluctant compere of the papal consistory to likely winner of a deadlocked contest. Fiennes's portrayal of a man consumed by anguished doubt into which ambition is gradually squeezed is superb and continues to engage even as the plot twists start to mount up.

As it turns out, there are quite a few of these. In a two hour film, context and exposition inevitably have to be compressed. But this being the twenty first century, where audiences are deemed incapable of grasping ethical or moral complexity, the sign-posting of the goodies and the baddies in Conclave is inevitably cliched. But for the backdrop of the Vatican and the profusion of magnificent scarlet clobber and crucifixes, the movie could easily have been misunderstood as a bitchy committee meeting at the Athenaeum as much as a seminal event to chose the leader of the world's 1.4bn Roman Catholics. Anyone looking for some specifically theological or canonical context will be disappointed. Apart from the old canard about the so-called "Latin Mass" (aka the Tridentine Rite), the main differences between the candidates' platforms are achingly secular rather than doctrinal.

In the "good corner" is Cardinal Bellini played by Stanley Tucci with just the smallest hint of the camp menace which has characterised some of his other screen performances. He is the "liberal" or "modern candidate" (pro-gay, anti-patriarchy, ecumenical) and is more than happy to throw his zucchetto into the ring if it means stopping the "baddies". The latter are embodied in a misogynistic and homophobic candidate from Nigeria and a vaping Italian cardinal who stands for the "traditionalists" and who is clankingly and inevitably revealed to be a bit of a fascist. Notwithstanding, he has by far the best line in the film when he ruefully admits that even the French, Gawd help us, have a chance of securing the pontificate. Spicing up the mix of the papabile, John Lithgow portrays the Canadian Cardinal Tremblay, an ultimate insider who is blandly evasive yet who proves to be a dab-hand at curial infighting. There is also the mysterious Cardinal Archbishop of Kabul, a secret appointment of the deceased Pope and who appears to have hearing difficulties judging by the number of times Fiennes has to repeat things to him.

The cardinals are banged up in what looks to be a redux edition of Travelodge, all narrow beds, inadequate lighting, hermetically sealed windows and easywipe floors. There is also a sort of canteen for the red-hats in which simply revolting looking food is prepared (what IS that black thing next to the boiling chicken?) and which is supervised by Isabella Rossellini as an unsmiling Sister Agnes. In order to vote, the princes of the church are ferried to and from the Sistine Chapel in buses which makes everything look like a College works outing minus the crate of Newcastle Brown at the back of the charabanc. In the longueurs, they all vape, smoke and plot while Fiennes tries to work out which ones should be black-balled.

Watching a bunch of over-dressed clerics casting their ballots below an astonishing mock-up of Michelangelo's gorgeous fresco does not of itself make compelling drama, not even when some random terrorist gets to blow in one of the chapel's high vaulted windows, spraying the startled electorate below with shards of glass and masonry dust. But what makes the film such a masterpiece is that these set pieces are merely punctuation marks in the psychological drama which steadily unfolds. To be truly papabile, the candidates have at least to dissemble a lack of ambition for the supreme office. Of course, this proves to be impossible, even for the Dean of the College himself, who early on expresses a desire to quit his offices for the seclusion of a monastery. Pride, covetousness, vanity, wrath and envy are all subtly and dramatically explored in characters who, by the very nature of their calling, are supposed to eschew them. That all members of the cast do so convincingly gives Conclave some of the richness of Graham Greene's profoundly insightful works on the nature of priestly fidelity and obedience. Many of the tete-a-tetes are electrifying.

The ending, when it comes, is truly gob-smacking. If you don't like or even love this film, I'll eat my biretta and send my gratuity slippers back to the Pope's cobbler. 

Happy Christmas.