Could it? Would it? Until it picked up best film at the Bafta awards, no one had really been taking this papal intrigue drama all that seriously – all the smart money was on one of two very American films: Anora and The Brutalist. (Even more so after Emilia Pérez’s spectacular Karla Sofía Gascón-related blow-out.) But could Conclave pull off a Green Book-style surge to the line, getting past more fashionable and/or artsy efforts through the virtues of sturdy, muscular storytelling?
For this is surely the basis of Conclave’s appeal to Oscar voters. Although blessed by brilliant, subtle performances (courtesy of Ralph Fiennes, Stanley Tucci, Isabella Rossellini and John Lithgow among others), and handsomely mounted design and camerawork, Conclave’s great strength is its narrative furniture, a build-out of the microcosm that is the papal court. It has a head start, of course, in its source material: Robert Harris has to be the king of the issue-based suspense novel, and the practised ease of the storytelling is the ballast that keeps the film afloat. (Harris’s screen-adaptation ratio is remarkable, from Fatherland and Enigma back in the day, to the Polanski-directed projects The Ghost and An Officer and a Spy.)
Conclave, though, gets every benefit from its actors. Fiennes, who has been leavening his work with quite a bit of comedy in recent years, goes back to his frowning, thoughtful best; here he is playing a man uncertain of almost everything, bar his own uncertainty. Is there anyone as good as Fiennes at conveying doubt, at chewing the corner of his lip and briefly glancing away? It’s an absolute masterclass. Tucci is also very good in a more thinly conceived role as the voice of liberalism; Rossellini’s role is likewise a little truncated, asking for a basic indignant toughness. Lithgow’s is probably the juiciest of the supporting roles, as manipulative, duplicitous Cardinal Tremblay.
German-born director Edward Berger, who piloted All Quiet on the Western Front to significant Oscar success in 2023, has put Conclave together with seemingly effortless ease, prioritising an unflashy, strong-limbed style that serves the narrative modulations, as well as the performances that push them along. (In a slightly unexpected development, Berger didn’t get a best director nomination, perhaps perfectly illustrating the idea that if you draw attention to yourself, you are not doing it right.)
What might perhaps go against it, in the final analysis, is its immersion in old-world politicking; the Academy this year seems interested in turning to distinctively American stories. The Brutalist, Anora, Nickel Boys and even The Substance are, in different ways, looking for meaning in the American heartland; perhaps Conclave will turn out to be a tad too classy for its own good.
