One Must Get Conclaved

 A good while ago I watched the glorious pope-type epic, Conclave. And what a movie it was! Ralph Fiennes has long been an object of fear and distrust to me, since I watched him in The Duchess and he was cruel and hard and mean to dear Keira Knightley, and since he did all that Voldemorting. It's hard to forgive such acts. But in Conclave he is a gentle, thoughtful little cardinal who is always on the verge of doing that sad eyebrow thing that is mostly the domain of Dreamworks characters and Ariana Grande. He's literally a bit concerned. And that's truly the movie.

 I've yet to read the book (although it is on my TBR list - that's To Be Read for any readers who aren't Goodreadspilled), but there is a palpable pulpiness to this film that really delights. There's a delicious pace, and the whole thing is furtive, probing dialogue. Stanley Tucci is here, and he's the best little guy in the house. Isabella Rossellini is here, gazing across the room, the spirit of womanhood come to stand strangely on the horizon. Love her.

And, of course, the little rollercoaster world of the conclave is exhilarating. Twelve Angry Men, but colourful and secretive and cigarette-stained. This is true dark academia in that it is salacious and obsessed with ritual. Hands and smoke the most important things in this furtive limbo. Rustling paper and the swish of cardinal's robes a close second. And the colour! Oh my god, the colour. The berry red of the boys, the blue of the clearest Italian sky for silent or chuckling women, and of course the pristine white of popely things and the pretty clear smoke of decisions and futures.

Conclave is, quite frankly, cute. Once we get past the detectives and the strange beautiful enclosure at the heart of the conclave, we get pure, joyful, dumb brilliance. One of the most fun endings I've seen in a movie. There's a smile on my face, and a thousand screenshots on my computer.

 Good movie. Get Conclaved.