The Pope is dead. For years, his Holiness had helped to move the Catholic church toward modernity and serving its constituents in a manner befitting the 21st century. Now, however, “the throne of the Holy See is vacant,” and a group of high-ranking cardinals — some of whom called the figurehead a friend, others who bitterly fought him on every issue — must assemble in Rome and elect one of their own to fill that void. They will be seized and meet every day until a worthy soul (or at the very least, the most politically savvy one) receives at least 72 votes. Once a new leader is chosen, a plume of colored smoke will be released into the sky and signal that the throne is vacant no more.
Several potential pontiffs emerge from the pack immediately. Cardinal Bellini (Stanley Tucci) is a progressive who wants to protect his predecessor's reformist legacy and is in favor of tolerance toward the LGBTQ community and other religions. Cardinal Tedesco (Serge Castellitto, scenery chewer extraordinaire) is an arch-conservative who believes that the world has been going to hell ever since Latin masses were halted. Both Cardinal Tremblay (John Lithgow) and the South African Cardinal Adeyemi (Lucian Msamati) have their own devotees, though their agendas are less ideological and more about power. Even the man hand-picked to manage the conclave, Cardinal Lawrence (Ralph Fiennes), might be in the running, despite his reluctance and the fact that he's been stricken with a crisis of faith of late. It's anyone's race!
Right before the doors are locked and these red-robed servants of the Lord are about to get down to the nasty business of stabbing each other in the back — metaphorically speaking, although maybe not — two surprises are dropped into Lawrence's lap. One is the last-minute appearance of a cardinal no one has ever heard of; his name is Benitez (Carlos Diehz), he's had ministries in war-torn areas such as the Congo, Baghdad and Kabul, and he was secretly ordained in pectore by the Holy Father himself. The newest addition to the conclave is welcomed with open arms by some and much suspicion by others.
The other shocker is that there could be a report of some sort lurking about, one that suggests that Tremblay has been making moves to secure his position in a way unbecoming of a papal wannabe. And this alleged dossier may only be the first thread of a larger clandestine scheme that, once pulled, could invalidate the proceedings and scandalize the entire church.
A delectably Velveeta-level slab of Vatican palace intrigue — call it Pope Fiction — director Edward Berger's take on Robert Harris's airport-read bestseller drops the sort of institutional skullduggery normally associated with secret societies and international spy rings. (Screenwriter Peter Straughan has adapted The Men Who Stare at Goats, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy and the TV miniseries of Wolf Hall, so he's completely in his comfort zone tackling this page-turner.) You could easily compare the Catholic Church's inner circle presented here to both, and half the fun of watching every twist and turn, every dum dum DUMMM reveal of betrayal and buried secrets is reveling in the arcane rituals, the museum-like decor and the skulking around on sets dressed up in that specific hue of cardinal-colored red. Ditto the compositions that present the conclave as either an impeccable, implacable source of collective menace or make these fussin', feudin' cardinals as figures straight off the Sistine Chapel's ceiling. Say what you will about this thriller — its pope-and-circumstance game is very very on point.
The other source of giddy pleasure is the sheer campiness that both the cast and the creatives behind the camera have whipped up into a frenzied froth. Berger made a cacophonous, confusing mess of the anti-war classic All Quiet on the Western Front back in 2022, and mistook its profound statements about the toll of conflict as an excuse for self-conscious seriousness drenched in bloody sturm-und-drang spectacle. No one would mistake this source material for high literature, and no amount of prestigious production design or Oscar-winning actors can make you think this is anything but overripe frommage. Not when you have Fiennes hissing “I'm not a witchfinder!” when tempted by evidence that something smells rotten in Vatican City. Or Isabella Rossellini, blessed with the role of the world's most suspicious nun, screaming accusations then politely curtsying before exiting stage left. Or the Italian ham Castellitto punctuating rants by furiously puffing on his vape. Or Tucci bellowing the already immortal line, “I'd be the Richard Nixon of popes!!” Or a ludicrous last-minute plot surprise that's guaranteed to have you shrieking “Holy shit!!!”
There are some truly wonderful laugh-out-loud moments to be had throughout, though the fact that, much like the German filmmaker's previous movie, this preposterous bit of Popesploitation is somehow being positioned as Oscar material may be the funniest part of it all. You can dress up Camembert with truffles and serve it on a gleaming silver platter, but in the end, it's still cheese — and is best enjoyed as such. Don't come to Conclave in search of some divine messages about power, corruption and lies percolating within a sacred space. Just embrace it for being the type of gobsmacking, pope-up-the-jams entertainment that will have you genuflecting with gratitude over its over-the-top ridiculousness.