An exquisite beginning, undone by an implausible end
I found myself utterly drawn in by the opening of The Conclave. Its measured, almost meditative pace was a refreshing change from the frenetic tempo of so much modern cinema. The cinematography was exquisiteโcomposed, reverent, and rich with atmosphere. I could have watched it unfold for hours, so immersive was the visual storytelling.
Ralph Fiennes, as ever, was sublime. His performance was understated yet intense, exuding gravitas without resorting to theatricality. There was a remarkable attention to detail in the early scenesโcostume, setting, languageโall of which seemed to promise a film of quiet integrity and thoughtful ambition.
And then, quite suddenly, it faltered. The final act felt like a departure not only from the filmโs own tone but from its entire raison dโรชtre. The eventual choice for the papacyโboth the individual selected and what he was portrayed to representโstrayed so far into fantasy that it rendered the preceding narrative irrelevant. The carefully cultivated authenticity was swept aside, replaced by a conclusion that felt implausible to the point of being disingenuous.
A pity, indeed. The film held real potential, and for a time, it seemed to honour it. But in its final moments, it chose artifice over substanceโand in so doing, lost the very credibility it had worked so hard to establish.