Conclave (2024), adapted by screenwriter Peter Straughan from Robert Harris’s 2016 novel and directed by Edward Berger, pulls viewers into the tightly wound, secretive world of the Vatican’s most sacred ritual: the election of a new pope, immersing the viewer in the Vatican’s most secretive ritual. What begins as a taut political thriller becomes a deeper meditation on authority, legacy, and the long shadow of Catholicism—particularly in a postcolonial world where the Church’s role is questioned, resisted, and at times, corrupted.
The drama isn’t just about who wears the white cassock. It’s about the Church’s vast influence—on politics, law, education, and societal values—and how that power has been entangled with colonialism and empire. The Vatican, shrouded in spiritual legitimacy, has wielded immense control, often veiling systemic inequality in divine authority.
At the center is Cardinal Lawrence (Ralph Fiennes), Dean of the College of Cardinals, who early in the film offers a powerful critique of the Church’s insistence on doctrinal certainty: “Certainty is the great enemy of unity,” he says. “Even Christ was not certain at the end.” Lawrence’s words are a challenge to religious rigidity—one that calls out the dangers of dogmatic authority. In equating faith with doubt and humility, the film positions Lawrence as a conscience of the Church, echoing both Christ’s own cries of abandonment and the New Testament’s critiques of Pharisaic legalism.
Sister Agnes, a quiet but potent presence, underscores the film’s gender commentary. “Although we sisters are supposed to be invisible, God has nevertheless given us eyes and ears,” she says. Though relegated to servitude, her words are a sharp critique of the Church’s exclusion of women. The Church’s refusal to ordain female priests—despite women’s deep historical involvement in Christianity—reveals a patriarchy deeply entrenched in tradition. While saints like Teresa of Ávila or Hildegard of Bingen have been venerated, their influence has always remained symbolic, never institutional. Agnes, though marginal, becomes a subtle symbol of resistance and observation in a male-dominated hierarchy.
Enter Cardinal Vincent Benítez (Carlos Diehz), a Mexican-born archbishop whose ministry in war-torn regions like the Congo and Baghdad gives him a grounded, morally urgent voice. When violence threatens to sway the conclave’s rhetoric, Benítez counters: “What do you know about war? … The thing you’re fighting is here, inside each and every one of us.” His speech cuts through the conclave’s privilege, calling out its hypocrisy and narrow moral vision. Benítez represents a new kind of spiritual leader—less concerned with doctrine than with compassion, justice, and healing.
Benítez recalls figures like Archbishop Óscar Romero, who was radicalized by the suffering around him, or Pope Francis, whose ministry began with simplicity and a call for mercy. He also evokes Desmond Tutu, whose idea of “God’s dream” of equality resonates in Benítez’s moral clarity. These figures blur the line between religious and political leadership, insisting that true faith requires action and solidarity with the oppressed.
The most forceful opposition to this vision comes from Cardinal Tedesco (Sergio Castellitto), a traditionalist Italian who embodies the racial and colonial biases of the Church. His disdain for Benítez’s candidacy is not theological—it’s racist. Tedesco clings to a Church that is white, European, and patriarchal. His bigotry recalls the story of Father Augustus Tolton, the first Black Catholic priest in the U.S., who was denied seminary entry in America due to his race and had to study in Rome—only to return to a Church still unwilling to fully accept him. Tedesco’s presence is a reminder that the Church’s power structures have long excluded voices of color and continue to resist change.
And yet, it is Benítez who rises to the papacy—not through maneuvering, but through conviction. His election is radical not just for his race or background, but for his refusal to conform. Benítez is intersex, and his decision to retain his body as it is while ascending to the papacy is a profound act of defiance. “I am what God made me,” he declares. This moment redefines spiritual authority, challenging the Church’s binary definitions of gender and rigid sexual morality. His authenticity becomes a spiritual strength, not a liability.
His earlier refusal to vote for a candidate unless he deemed him worthy also speaks volumes. “I’m sorry, but I cannot vote for a man unless I deem him the most worthy to be Pope.” This rebuke to the Church’s tradition of political maneuvering is a return to first principles: leadership rooted in service, not power. In refusing to play the game, Benítez reframes the election not as a political contest, but as a spiritual calling.
The film’s deeper question isn’t simply who becomes Pope, but what kind of authority the Church should wield in a rapidly changing world. The Church is growing in the global South. Africa now accounts for 20% of the world’s Catholics, with significant growth in the Democratic Republic of Congo, Nigeria, and Uganda. South America remains a stronghold, with Brazil alone home to 13% of global Catholics. Asia sees slower but steady growth, led by the Philippines and India. In contrast, Europe’s influence wanes. This demographic shift makes the election of a Pope from the global South not just symbolically significant—it’s overdue.
Historically, the papacy has been as much a political office as a spiritual one. Pope John Paul II, revered for his spirituality, also played a decisive role in the fall of communism in Eastern Europe. His 1979 visit to Poland galvanized the Solidarity movement and helped dismantle the Soviet Bloc. The Vatican has always existed in a liminal space—between God and Caesar, faith and politics. Cardinal Benítez captures this duality: “I know what it is to exist… between the world’s certainties.” His words echo the Church’s ongoing struggle to serve both its divine mission and its earthly influence.
Cardinal Lawrence, in a moment of exasperation, says, “I thought we were here to serve God, not the Curia.” It’s a pointed critique of the Vatican’s bureaucracy, a system more invested in institutional continuity than spiritual transformation. This sentiment mirrors the disillusionment of the Protestant Reformation, when reformers rejected a Church seen as corrupt, legalistic, and overly politicized.
One of the film’s most scathing lines comes from Wozniak (Jacek Koman), who bitterly recalls: “We’ve had a Pope who was in the Hitler Youth… Popes who ignored reports of the most appalling sexual abuse of children!” His words strip away the façade of holiness to expose the Church’s institutional failures—especially its role in covering up clerical abuse. From John Paul II’s inaction to Benedict XVI’s bureaucratic mishandling as head of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, the Church has often protected predators over victims. Wozniak’s anger is not just personal—it’s a moral reckoning with the rot within.
Conclave isn’t just about the politics of papal succession—it’s about who gets to claim spiritual authority. For those of us shaped by missionary legacies and postcolonial identity, the film resonates as a story of resistance and redefinition. The Church’s power, long centered in white, male, European hands, is being questioned—not just externally, but from within.
Cardinal Tedesco’s discomfort with Benítez and other non-European candidates is more than personal prejudice; it’s symbolic of a system that has long marginalized non-Western voices. His opposition reflects the legacy of colonial religious imposition, where indigenous cultures were overwritten by European norms of piety, leadership, and salvation. That this system still resists a Latin American, intersex pope is unsurprising—and precisely why Benítez’s victory is so significant.
Ultimately, Conclave is a battle over the soul of the Church. It asks: Can faith survive without hierarchy? Can spiritual leadership exist without domination? And who decides what holiness looks like? The film’s final message is not one of triumph but transformation. The papacy, once a symbol of empire, is reimagined as a vessel of healing and inclusion. Benítez’s ascension is not a conclusion—it’s a beginning. A new vision for spiritual authority—rooted in justice, humility, and human complexity—rises from the ashes of an old order.
In the end, Conclave isn’t just about the Church. It’s about all of us—and the kind of world we want to build.
Words by Cass Fong
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