Who doesn’t love nuns? They’re so damn striking. They can be jolly, or severe, or a form of witness protection for Whoopi Goldberg. A line of them will enliven any streetscape, and if they have to scatter to make way for a runaway vehicle? That’s cinema gold, baby.
Of course being married to Jesus isn’t as fun as it might sound. First of all, your husband is dead, he died thousands of years ago, before you or the church existed, and the most common depiction of him is yes, shirtless, but not in a fun way. You are condemned to a life of abstinence, and hold limited power within your institution, subservient to priests, bishops, cardinals, and the big daddy of them all, Pontifex “Papa” Maximus. It is unsurprising that nuns, as a species, are in dramatic decline—the average age for one in the U.S. is 80.
Yet nuns remain fertile subjects for storytellers interested in matters of faith and power. They are rooted in a history and tradition stretching back centuries, without the baggage of child abuse carried around by priests. The spectacle of their uniforms, their intense personal sacrifice, the confines of the cloister—all lend themselves to drama, despite the fact that, in reality, convent life was/is likely quite dull. Catholic sisters, who work in education, healthcare, or social services, are less often used as narrative subjects, despite living lives that are probably more filled with incident. Nuns, like monks, spend most of each day singing, praying, and studying. What drama they do experience is presumably of the internal variety.
There was a time, however, when religious belief was significantly more common and nuns (if they had money) were able to wield a bit of actual power. I recently enjoyed two works of art about nuns in their historical prime: Lauren Groff’s novel Matrix, and Paul Verhoeven’s film Benedetta, which both came out in 2021.
Matrix conjures a version of Marie de France, the real life poet and nun who lived in 12th century England. In Groff’s telling, Marie is a towering “bastardess” of royal blood, sent off to convent life against her will. She arrives at a destitute abbey full of starving nuns and, through grit and ingenuity, turns it into a wealthy regional power. Marie is something of a girlboss, smarter, craftier, harder working, and stronger than almost everyone around her. Such an unambiguous portrait of heroism is a bit old fashioned, but I found it refreshing in our age of dysfunctional anti-heroes.
Despite the holy setting it’s a very earthly novel, one you could confidently call “rollicking.” Money plays a large role—the acquisition and spending of it, with sapphic sex and the odd bit of violence thrown in for good measure. Marie is a big woman, in physique as well as status, and the pleasures of the book are similar to the pleasures of the Romance tradition: watching a larger-than-life hero vanquish their enemies one by one, before dying comfortably in old age. It’s an unabashed utopian fantasy of female power, and while it’s not the most politically radical text it is an effortless, entertaining read.
The most common female protagonists in historical fiction are, surely, royals (or women somehow involved with royals). I think convents offer more interesting terrain for a writer because within their confines the only man of importance is the one nailed to the cross. And nuns in Europe really could accrue power and influence on their own, communicating directly with emperors, kings, and popes. They could be renowned writers (Marie de France), composers (Hildegard of Bingen), and painters (Plautilla Nelli). And, if they were lucky/crafty enough to be associated with supernatural acts, they could even be celebrities.
Benedetta is also based on a real nun, one who lived in 17th century Italy (the movie is French). Sex, death, and money are more tightly woven into the religious aspects of the story, though it strikes me as equally secular in its worldview. Our hero, the zealous Benedetta, once again comes from wealth. The plot takes off when she gets the hots for an immature, poor, not-particularly-devoted novice named Bartolomea. Their relationship is unabashedly carnal, though Benedetta, radically and/or selfishly, interprets it as divine in nature. While this affair is happening behind closed doors Benedetta becomes a bit of a star, beloved by locals terrified of plague and in need of some godly dazzle. Benedetta experiences stigmata and is visited by Jesus in dreams and visions, wielding a sword against her enemies. She even, at one point, rises from the dead. What’s not to love?
Some of her fellow nuns doubt that Benedetta’s miracles are real, and when her relationship with Bartolomea is inevitably discovered they charge her with blasphemy, heresy, and beastiality (there was no language nor specific law against lesbian sex—they literally couldn’t imagine). Throughout her trial Benedetta is steadfast in her dedication to Christ. Like all holy figures there’s a bit of con-artistry here, though the integrity of Benedetta’s faith seems unquestionable. She goes so far as to say that, even if she is faking the stigmata, it is God’s hand that guides the fakery.
Verhoeven made a career in America as a satirist with a penchant for over-the-top depictions of violence and eroticism. The director of RoboCop, Total Recall, Basic Instinct, Showgirls, and Starship Troopers might not be your first choice for a movie about Renaissance nuns. And at first I thought the violence in Benedetta was excessive. I had to look away during the suggestion of a certain kind of torture. But on reflection it’s fitting given the Catholic milieu. Is there a more gruesome religion on Earth? Why shouldn’t this movie, with its scenes of torture and death, be as harrowing as the story of Christ or the martyrs? To sugarcoat would be a disservice to history and to Catholic art more generally.
As for the eroticism—would it shock you to learn that a French movie about lesbians contains a generous amount nudity? In the film’s defence, the story is largely about the relationship between the spirit and the body, and it’s much harder to film the spirit.
Despite looking a bit cheap and the aforementioned brushes with sensationalism, this movie rules. It’s a certified Convent Classic™ right up there with Black Narcissus and, I don’t know, The Sound of Music? While less rosy in its depiction of convent life than Matrix, it has a surprisingly happy ending [spoiler here]—Benedetta, like Marie de France, is not killed for her transgressions. Given the long history of gruesomely murdered martyrs, heretics, and outspoken women, I found this historically accurate ending downright miraculous.