Edward Berger makes you wait for the turtle; John Steinbeck puts it front and center. Not to revisit an original sin of high school English classes across the country, but the similarities between The Grapes of Wrath’s opening symbolism and Conclave’s conclusive imagery are too striking to go unremarked upon, more notable for their disparities than their kinship. The totem of American fiction uses the terrapin to depict an endless struggle for survival and grace, but its lack of speed and wanting dexterity make it vulnerable. Though the catholic church is presently hemorrhaging followers, their global, historical position is one of strength, if not antagonism. It’s a turtle whose glacial, plodding attitude toward modernity belies might where the Joad clan’s avatar conveys weakness, though the simple inversion here is far less interesting than the metatextual ideas at play. Director Berger and company might think they’re making a movie about social progress and its propensity toward backsliding, but Conclave’s more compelling argument is about cinema itself, and its tendency to vacillate between forward-thinking and backwards-looking polarities.

We’ll get to the bird’s eye view soon enough, but contending with the macro involves starting with the micro, which is tightly focused indeed. Set in a modern day Vatican City, Conclave foregoes tedious backstory to arrive right at death’s door, with the standing pope having just left this mortal coil, his body laying calmly in his bed. The attendant cardinals have only just said their good-byes when plans for the titular convention start to manifest, one that will see clergymen from all over the world vying to take up the mantle from the recently departed. The election is to be overseen by Dean Thomas Lawrence (Ralph Fiennes), a left-leaning man of carefully chosen words and myriad scruples. His latent skepticism proves well founded, as the initial top candidates, liberally-minded Aldo Bellini (Stanley Tucci) and ultra conservative Goffredo Tedesco (Sergio Castellitto), have as many skeletons in the closet as the rest of the aspirant attendees.

While the trappings of unrest within the Catholic church would seem to set the stage for a weighty film of consequence and reckoning (not to mention inclusion in the awards race), Conclave is immediately and persistently more interested in the seedier elements of carefully maintained secrets and sinister deal making. It’s a corker dressed in prestigious clothing, atoning for what it lacks in genuine insight or rumination with the steady pull of a beach book. The myriad gestures toward our modern political landscape aren’t so much half-hearted as too obvious to register as novel. Anything deeper would surely get in the way of the movie’s page-turner qualities, a clever prioritization that gives a relatively stayed picture a steady sense of momentum. Observing that glad handing and favor trading rule the day might not make Conclave incisive, but the water in the kettle stays percolating.

Many flicks feature an actor who’s said to be in their own movie, but Berger is the rare director who seems to have misplaced the memo on his project’s prevailing tone. Treating Peter Straughan’s crackerjack screenplay like Sisyphus pushing a boulder up a hill, the helmer’s effortful filmmaking fights like hell to attach importance to an endeavor that’s much closer to afternoon TNT programming than he seems to realize. This dire approach does have some upside, including the film’s immaculate production design, attentive visual language, and the occasional well-drawn set piece, but gourmet popcorn is still popcorn. Perhaps the man behind 2022’s inhumanly grim remake of All Quiet on the Western Front really believes in the importance of the material here, but from an auditorium seat it all just feels like overcompensation. 

It’s up to the actors to enliven the proceedings, a task that Fiennes and company accomplish with an almost nonchalant acuity. Largely foregoing the pyrotechnics often associated with Great Acting, the cast’s dazzling command of the spoken word gives the movie its motor, especially when tense exchanges are backed by Volker Bertelmann’s propulsive score. The calculus here is pretty simple; give some of modern cinema’s greatest talkers something juicy to play, and let the rest take care of itself. Berger’s insistence on his own greatness can only distract so much from a well-written tête-à-tête between Fiennes and Tucci, and while Carlos Diehz and the aforementioned Castellitto might not have the same household notoriety as castmates John Lithgow and Isabella Rossellini, everyone on board is well versed in wielding a tongue like a knife.

Straughan’s pen gives them plenty to work with, but the dearth of curiosity here makes for a movie that largely vanishes from the mind the moment the lights come up. Despite planting a big, red flag on Lawrence’s crisis of faith, Conclave steers clear of anything resembling spirituality, too beholden to its metaphorical implications to give religion or faith anything more than a passing glance. Same goes for the liberal/conservative dichotomy at hand; instead of investigating how either side utilizes prayer and scripture to end up on their chosen side of the aisle, the screenplay capitulates to its presumably left-leaning audience and calls it good. For a film ostensibly concerned with process and minutiae, there are an awful lot of empty calories on hand.

This doesn’t have to be a bad thing. After all, Conclave is never less than entertaining, and sometimes even gripping. It’s also a Trojan Horse, weaponizing our shared, antiquated understanding of what makes for important cinema, turning an effective potboiler into something salient and solemn. Those qualities are largely absent on screen, implied by the setting alone, which brings us back to the turtle. Are Berger and crew actually convinced that returning to yesteryear’s vision of totemic storytelling will unearth something momentous? Do they all just know what to say and show in order to get an invite to the Academy Awards? Or are we, as filmgoers, simply immune to change and progress when it comes to prestige fare? Perhaps we’re all the tortoise, waiting for an outside force to usher us into a new way of thinking. If we’re really taking Conclave seriously, lord knows we need a helping hand.