Conclave

Directed by Edward Berger

Let’s talk about smoke, secrets, and the soft rustle of silk robes concealing centuries of institutional rot. Conclave, Edward Berger’s adaptation of Robert Harris’s novel, is a slow-burn ecclesiastical thriller that traps us inside the velvet-lined chamber of the Vatican’s most secretive ritual—the election of a new pope. But don’t mistake its solemnity for sanctity. This is a pressure cooker of power, paranoia, and patriarchy, dressed up in cassocks and incense.

Set in the immediate aftermath of a pope’s death, the film drops us inside the Sistine Chapel, where 118 cardinals from around the globe are locked away to vote for his successor. Jeremy Irons plays Cardinal Lomeli, a reluctant moral compass with the weariness of a man who’s seen too much of God’s work twisted into man’s ambition. Irons is all quiet turmoil and dry resolve—his performance simmers, refusing to tip into melodrama, even as the plot veers into ecclesiastical House of Cards territory.

Berger directs with an eye for ritualistic tension. The camera lingers on hands—clasped in prayer, slipping sealed ballots into golden urns, clutching secrets. Every shot feels like a tableau from a Renaissance painting about to crack apart. It’s visually gorgeous, yes—but in that oppressive, holy-ornate way that makes you feel like the walls themselves are judging you.

And judge they do. Conclave isn’t just a whodunit; it’s a who-will-it-be, as alliances form and betrayals unfold within a cloistered patriarchy drunk on its own solemnity. Underneath the chants and incense lies the rot of power sustained through centuries of silence and spectacle. The Church isn’t just a backdrop here—it’s the antagonist, with a thousand faces and one desire: survival.

What makes the film truly daring—especially for mainstream cinema—is how it interrogates the very concept of divine authority. In a world where spiritual leadership is decided behind locked doors by men in crimson, Conclave pulls the curtain back just enough to reveal the performance. There's a twist, of course, which I won’t spoil—but suffice to say, it lands with the kind of thematic heft that makes you reconsider everything that came before.

Is it a perfect film? No. At times the pacing drags, and the supporting characters blur into a sea of aging male egos. But perhaps that’s the point. It’s hard to tell one bishop’s ambition from another when they’re all cloaked in the same self-serving sanctimony.

What’s radical about Conclave is not just its critique of clerical power—it’s its refusal to provide easy answers. It asks: Who deserves to lead? Who gets to speak for God? And most importantly, what kind of reckoning must come before redemption?

VERDICT:
A taut, cerebral thriller soaked in incense and intrigue. Jeremy Irons is magnetic, the Vatican is menacingly majestic, and the twist is as timely as it is heretical. For those of us who grew up questioning everything the Church told us, Conclave feels less like a thriller and more like an exorcism.

4 out of 5 Molotovs