“While Conclave dons the regalia of realpolitik, it’s closer to pulp fiction.”

The pope is dead. In accordance with tradition a ceremonial protocol kicks into action, all solemnly performed by those who grace this religious theater some call the Holy See. On the palatial walls veins run across the marble as if the whole building were a living organism, some dormant titan, slowly digesting the powerful men that wait within. Though attributing any sort of life to the Vatican as a space and system may be tantamount to a mistake. One smells the fire and brimstone of stomach acid eating away at the players’ souls, but the environment is cold to the touch. All surfaces are polished to a mirror-like shine, symmetrical lines rule how the eye travels, and the general tone is closer to a mausoleum than any habitation for those whose hearts still beat. In either case, whether consumed by a monster or entombed before their time, those within are dead men walking. No matter how much they grasp at power above their station, no matter their schemes and intrigues, the betrayals afoot and the whispered conspiracies, there seems to be little left of humanity in them. And as the conclave to elect a new pontiff comes together, no angels can be found in those hallowed halls. Only demons in the worst cases, and ineffectual ghouls in the best. The pope is dead, so let the games begin.

Thus starts Edward Berger’s follow-up to his much-celebrated adaptation of All Quiet on the Western Front. Once again the German cineaste works from a literary source, though one can hardly compare the weight and importance of Remarque’s magnum opus to Robert Harris’s airport read. That should protect Berger from the difficulties of crossing mediums that plagued his earlier success. There’s less to get wrong, and what’s there is unencumbered by historical importance. While Conclave dons the regalia of realpolitik, it’s closer to pulp fiction, and for the most part Berger seems to be playing along. His filmmaking has been calibrated to the precepts of Hollywood thrillers, and even the surges of audiovisual imagination tend to bypass respectability on their way to opera buffa. Slow motion is regularly deployed, shameless and all the better for it, while Volker Bertelmann’s score screams its grandeur every chance it gets. Moreover, Berger is obsessed with the pageantry of Catholicism, the pomp and circumstance that contrast so strikingly against the realities of human smallness. In the opening salvos, for instance, a contrast is laid bare for all to see – the papal rite of death clashing with the sight of a dead body encased in plastic, taken out like trash to the nearby morgue. The flesh is fragile, and you had better not forget it.

Through it all, Berger’s most excellent collaborator is cinematographer Stéphane Fontaine, whose gaze renders the Vatican in all its gloom and doom, gold guild and golden rot, puce and purple and cardinal red. Geometrical compositions find patterns in the collective gesture, something that’s further emphasized in the formidable design work by Suzie Davies and Lisy Christl. The occasional bouts of movement, often quick and circular, are less interesting, if only because they strain too hard to signal tension where the text fails at providing it. Then there’s the matter of editing. Nick Emerson’s work is solid and perfectly legible, always accomplishing what the movie’s asking for without deviation. Though in some cases an inkling of deviation would have done a world of good. Consider the use of reaction shots, how some characters are reduced to a punchline in conversation pieces and seldom afforded more dimension than their duty within Conclave‘s structure strictly requires. It’s efficient up to a point. But past that, it starts to stink of unintended dehumanization.

For the characters that start the film as integral parts of the system, that’s an understandable quality to convey. However, the same can’t be said for those figures whose role it is to break away from the others, to break through the storm clouds with a ray of hope. An easy laugh here or a twist reveal there dilute the impact of these fictional people and cheapen the whole of Conclave. As much as the text may gesture toward higher concepts – certainty as the death of unity, the Catholic Church’s crisis of conscience over its historical mistakes, the role of women in the curia – the execution leaves a lot to be desired. It is inevitably a question of framing, but also a structural faux pas. It’s saying something should be held in great esteem only to treat it like a trump card, a narrative jack-in-the-box for the sake of eleventh-hour pleasures. All these decisions turn a marginalized identity into a punchline, a meager party trick to be trotted out whenever the mood’s down. After all, one needs to wow the audience before the credits roll, even if the price to pay is that of integrity. Harris is to blame for much of this mess, but must an adaptation be so shackled to its origins to the point of self-sabotage? And if it is, what’s the point of it in the first place?

Fontaine does plenty to salvage the enterprise and Berger has an undeniable talent for straightforward mystery cum melodrama. Still, it’s not enough. No, not even Ralph Fiennes’ leading man performance is enough, though his break into the beatific at the word of innocence is a sight to be seen. For a second, Conclave touches the sublime. Then, it slips, and it’s back to earth, halfway to hell.