As the latest addition to Paul Verhoeven’s eclectic cinematic repertoire, Benedetta’s sacrilegious explorations resurrect sapphic stereotypes and unenjoyable viewing.
★★✰✰✰
In the mind’s eye of a stranger, the image of Christ may take the shape of a scarred, balding man beheading medieval strangers through an eyepatch and a hooded cloak. In the mind’s eye of a man, two unassuming virgins may conveniently feel same-sex attractions to further a wildly controversial narrative. Whatever its take, Benedetta was born to elicit strong audience reactions, particularly when dissecting the joins of religious corruption, sin and homosexuality. Much like the rest of Verhoeven’s directorial back catalogue—including the likes of Elle, Showgirls and Basic Instinct—he laughs in the face of controversy, soaking in his distinct blending of graphic violence and sexual content. In the case of Benedetta, it leaves a sour aftertaste.
Sent into a convent at a young age, Benedetta (played by Virginie Efira) grows up believing herself to be the bride of Jesus Christ. Devoted to her beliefs, her world inside the walls is shaken with the arrival of Bartolomea (Daphne Patakia), fresh from the streets of 17th century Tuscany. As Benedetta deepens her beliefs of bearing the stigmata, she engages in a sexual relationship with Bartolomea, much to the dismay of The Abbess (Charlotte Rampling).
It’s difficult to establish exactly where Benedetta sits, in terms of narrative purpose. On the one hand, the film examines the ramifications of contorting corruption within a religious housing—which it dances with successfully. Iconography such as demonic possession and stigmatic wounds are always going to provide the succour Verhoeven is hoping for, steeped in historic taboo with no clear answers. They’re also the kinds of subjects we don’t need answers to—they can happily sit within their mysterious confines to be laughed at, feared or enjoyed.
On the other hand, many viewers know Benedetta as the ‘sexy lesbian nun movie’ before they’ve even engaged with it. The film doesn’t explore a story of love, or even lust, but instead one of convenience. It’s almost sad to witness the misplaced sexual advances of Bartolomea, knowing it’s the only language she can speak after a lifetime of misogynistic abuse. Embedding any kind of lesbian relationship within a power imbalance is only asking for trouble, in a market where its authentic representation is lacking in genuine presence. If that’s the kind of trouble desired by this esteemed team of producers and director, it presents as incredibly outdated—and frankly, quite gross.
If you’re straight, or a man, you’re having fun. If you sit outside this intended audience viewfinder, the mood feels less jovial.
It’s abundantly clear that the audience is viewing 17th century convent life through the male gaze. The addition of the sapphic perspective on top of already complex religious accountability feels presented only to get us off. Lesbianism becomes the butt of the joke in farcical visual representation, resorting to methods of penetration that can easily offend a plethora of voices whilst rejecting any single shred of accuracy (wooden Virgin Mary dildo, anyone?). It’s all okay though, because we’re having fun. If you’re straight, or a man, you’re having fun. If you sit outside this intended audience viewfinder, the mood feels less jovial.
The easiest way to describe watching Benedetta is to think of a Monty Python sketch—without any of the humour. Sure, there are good points. Amidst the crazy, Mel Gibson-eqsue Jesus sequences, there’s some really entrancing cinematography. Tender exchanges and incredibly intriguing questions are being asked, mostly with thanks to Charlotte Rampling. Living up to her Academy Award nominated lineage, it’s easy to forget she’s not a native French speaker. Casting an iron gaze across her convent kingdom with a glint of skepticism in her eye, Rampling is firmly the jewel in Verhoeven’s distorted crown.
The Verdict
It’s blindingly obvious that Benedetta is the brainchild of an 83 year old man. With someone who has nothing to lose and everything to play with at its helm, the film forms a jumbled bag of emotions you can’t quite formulate, but leaves a particularly queasy feeling. Performances cannot be faulted (Rampling arguably earns one star by herself), and the narrative arc leaves enough strands dangling to make for satisfying second-guessing. Even so, the circle jerk output in its entirety feels outrageously immoral—and not in a pleasing, “that’ll show ‘em” way.
Words by Jasmine Valentine
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