Benedet­ta – first-look review

One of the most hot­ly-antic­i­pat­ed films at Cannes in 2021 is a two-time holdover; Paul Verhoeven’s Benedet­ta was ini­tial­ly moot­ed for a 2019 pre­mière at the fes­ti­val, but was pushed back a year due to the director’s recov­ery from hip surgery. It was then nudged back once more when the 2020 edi­tion was can­celled due to Covid-19. Suf­fice to say excite­ment had reached a fever pitch on the after­noon of the pre­mière, with the oppres­sive July heat on the Cote d’Azure all the more appro­pri­ate to frame a tale of lust, lies and reli­gious fer­vour based on the life of 17^th cen­tu­ry les­bian nun Benedet­ta Carlini.

This is the sec­ond screen­writ­ing col­lab­o­ra­tion between Ver­ho­even and David Birke and it recalls the sala­cious life of the blessed Benedet­ta (Vir­ginie Efi­ra) who first appears as a pre­co­cious child who claims the Vir­gin Mary speaks to her. Her dot­ing par­ents pur­chase a place for Benedet­ta in the Pes­cia con­vent run by the shrewd, mon­ey-mind­ed Abbess (Char­lotte Ram­pling) and it’s here that Benedet­ta comes into her own, expe­ri­enc­ing visions of Jesus and devot­ing her­self to a divine pow­er. That is, until the imp­ish Bar­tolomea (Daphne Patakia) seeks sanc­tu­ary at the con­vent from her abu­sive father and broth­er; Benedetta’s par­ents pay her way into the church, and a clan­des­tine mutu­al attrac­tion rapid­ly develops.

But that’s not all. Benedet­ta expe­ri­ences an increase in her reli­gious com­mu­ni­ca­tions, and sug­ges­tion grows that she has been blessed by Jesus him­self. Or is it a clever ruse to gain pow­er with­in the con­vent, which the Abbess her­self describes as ​“the game”?

If you scan the Wikipedia page for ​‘nun­spoil­ta­tion’, the name Benedet­ta Car­li­ni appears, and what could be more tit­il­lat­ing than a les­bian Bride of Jesus who claimed to be in com­mune with the holy father? Ver­ho­even has long been inter­est­ed in reli­gious sto­ry­telling, to the extent he pub­lished a book about the life of Jesus Christ in 2010, and here he applies his provoca­tive sen­si­bil­i­ties to the juici­est of sub­jects. The result is incen­di­ary – a lusty romp con­cern­ing repressed desire, the seedy under­bel­ly of organ­ised reli­gion and whether it real­ly mat­ters if com­mu­nion is admin­is­tered at a church or from between a lover’s thighs.

Unabashed­ly explic­it and mis­chie­vous, Benedet­ta suc­ceeds large­ly due to its com­mit­ted and mag­net­ic cast. Efira’s volatile turn in the title role is one for the ages, pre­sent­ing us with a woman we can’t take our eyes off, nev­er quite decid­ing if she’s a false prophet or blessed mes­sen­ger. Mean­while Char­lotte Ram­pling deliv­ers her best per­for­mance in quite some time as the icy Abbess, while the church itself is pre­sent­ed as a tool for finan­cial and polit­i­cal deal­ing rather than a sanc­tu­ry to com­mune with God.

The film’s satir­i­cal slant, com­bined with the chem­istry between Efi­ra and Patakia, cre­ate fire­works, and while sim­i­lar tales of same-sex love under try­ing his­tor­i­cal cir­cum­stances remain pre­dom­i­nant­ly wrought and po-faced, Benedet­ta has a real sense of humour; its script is absurd and often very fun­ny, with a hand­ful of bod­i­ly func­tion gags thrown in for good measure.

So yes, much will be made of the ​‘les­bian nun sex scenes’, but there’s so much more at play: cheer­ful dis­avow­ing of oppres­sive dog­ma; and cheeky sug­ges­tions about why the city of Pes­cia was able to avoid the plague. This is a cin­e­mat­ic spec­ta­cle that’s sexy and grotesque in a way films just don’t seem to dare any­more, evok­ing Ken Russell’s The Dev­ils and, of course, Verhoeven’s much-maligned (but even­tu­al­ly reclaimed) Showgirls.

Verhoeven’s film seems cer­tain to incur the wrath of the Catholic church due to its blas­phe­mous details (too glo­ri­ous­ly juicy to reveal), but for those with lit­tle-to-no faith in a high­er pow­er, Benedet­ta is a deli­cious, vis­cer­al provo­ca­tion, one that rev­els in the temp­ta­tion to sin and sin again.

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