The Shoes of the Fisherman (1968)
directed by Michael AndersonFrames in this review are taken from the 2006 Warner Brothers DVD.
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I first stumbled onto The Shoes of the Fisherman by chance as I was organizing a collection of trailers. As it happens, Shoes has quite a good trailer, coming from the period when exclamation-laden title cards began giving way to voice narration. As that carefully balanced voice laid out the intriguing story of "the first Russian pope," I was hooked. This is an interesting film, I thought, one that I ought to watch. How could such an incredible story be told without being ludicrous? Plus, the film has got Anthony Quinn and Laurence Olivier; either one of them might have done a bad movie (Olivier in particular lent his name to some utter trash towards the end of his career), but probably not both.
There it stayed on my long list of films to watch "some day," until the 2005 papal conclave brought it out of obscurity into, well, just a little less obscurity. In one of the news analysis pieces, a journalist recalled visiting Cardinal Wojtyla in Poland and reading the spines of the books in his study to get a more personal assessment of the man. The only piece of fiction on that bookshelf was Morris West's 1963 novel The Shoes of the Fisherman. Apt indeed was the book's place for the future Pope John Paul II — the first non-Italian pope in centuries and the only pope from a Communist nation. One suspects that there may have been at least some influence on the College of Cardinals in 1979 as they met to select John Paul I's successor, for surely they had all read the book or seen the film.
The Film
The film version of The Shoes of the Fisherman is a glossy Hollywood picture, starting with the shiny chrome lettering of the main titles. (Had to be carefully photographed in the pre-digital days.) Incorporating footage from inside Vatican City, intercut with scenes shot on vast soundstages, and dramatized by Alex North's splendid score, Shoes surely gave the 1968 audience a feast for the eyes and ears. But beyond the high production values, the film's story is intriguingly intellectual, raising issues about faith, social justice, and the Church's role in a rapidly changing world. Kudos to Morris West's novel for asking such questions, and to the screenwriters for shepherding such themes through the screenplay, though the film's 162-minute running length could have benefited from some trimming.
Just how does a Russian become pope at the height of the Cold War? Ah, the American inexactness in geography (e.g. England, Holland) strikes again, for Kiril Lakota (Anthony Quinn) was Metropolitan Archbishop of Lvov, Ukraine. He has been performing hard labor as a welder on a Siberian pipeline until he is unexpectedly summoned by Soviet Premier Kamenev (Laurence Olivier). There is a familiarity between these two men, and Kamenev possesses a grudging admiration of this man who would not compromise his ideas. Though he is offered release from his sentence, Lakota declares that he would not be a party to any deal that keeps him silent about conditions in the Soviet Union.
But it is not his decision to make, as the Vatican has already agreed to the terms and sent Father David Telemond (Oskar Werner) with a diplomatic passport for Lakota. On the plane to Rome, the newly-freed thinker takes an interest in Telemond's work, and is surprised to hear that the Father has been barred from publishing any of his ten manuscripts. On arrival, Lakota has a private audience with the Pope and is made Cardinal as a reward for his perseverance. Telemond, on the other hand, faces an ecclesiastical council to judge his unorthodox ideas. But the Pope dies suddenly, and the inquiry is suspended for the upcoming papal conclave. After several ballots fail to elect a pope, the cardinals are struck by Lakota's eloquence in an informal discussion outside the Sistine Chapel. One by one they proclaim him as pope by acclamation, and a dumbfounded Lakota accepts. "It's the Russian," deadpans the American TV reporter in shock as the new pope is announced on the balcony. "The college of cardinals has elected the first non-Italian pope since ... Adrian VI, four hundred years ago." Perfect place for an intermission.
After the (brief) entr'acte, it is time to tackle the problems of the world. China has suffered crop failures and sees no way to forestall widespread famine except to launch an invasion of the rice bowl of Southeast Asia. Premier Kemenev sends a KGB envoy to Pope Kiril, asking for his mediation with Chairman Peng of the People's Republic. But the Chairman wants action, not promises. "Words are cheap," he says, pointing out that the pope will go home to acclaim whether the summit is a success or a failure. "Pay some of the price that we have to pay!" he demands, invest something dear to you so that you have a stake in the success of the peace initiative. Meanwhile, Telemond is bidden to silence by the inquiry, and a troubled Kiril delivers the bad news himself. The plot builds up to the magnificent coronation ceremony, where, despite the misgivings of his advisors, Kiril calls a sudden halt to the proceedings and declares a new policy for the Church. Henceforth, he announces, the Catholic Church will donate all its wealth — its lands, its buildings, its art, its gold — to the relief of the world's hungry and suffering.
Realistic? Of course not. The storyline is filled with implausibles. The mere fact of Kiril's election requires several historical traditions to be broken. Today after we have had John Paul II, it seems prophetic to choose a non-Italian pope from a Communist country with a gift for languages. But a pope elected by acclamation, who reigns under his own name, is equally unlikely and has not occurred in centuries. (Indeed, though it was still possible in 1968, election by acclamation is no longer a valid method of selecting a pope.) To stretch belief even further, the Ukrainian Church is a Catholic but not a Roman Church, and the last pope from an Eastern rite church was Zacharias of Greece, who reigned from 741-752 CE.
But such implausibles are precisely what give the story its power. Broad strokes on a broad canvas set the stage for sweeping ideas which ask us to suspend disbelief and contemplate weighty moral issues. In a world of such rapid change, is it necessary to cling so rigidly to dogma, or can the Church adapt itself to modernity? At what level of adaptation does the Church lose its religious roots? To raise such questions is the role of the Telemond character, a Renaissance thinker whose study is filled with astronomical and scientific drawings. He espouses unconventional ideas about spirituality, and exceeds the bounds of religion itself, admitting that, even were God not to exist, he would still believe in Man.
Likewise, the brash young Chairman Peng presents a stark contrast to the older, more accomodating Premier Kemenev, roughly in line with the differing Communist doctrines after the Sino-Soviet split. Yet no mindless radical is Peng, who points out that he might well be out of a job after the meeting with Kiril. The Chairman decries the Western intervention which has cut China off from its traditional Asian trading partners, but Premier Kemenev counsels small steps rather than overnight changes. By their silence, the two European leaders implicitly agree with the validity of Peng's grievances. It is a pragmatic worldview which sees actions in terms of cause-and-effect, rather than in absolutes of good and evil, and recognizes that people and nations sometimes are forced into aggression by economic events. Though allegorical, it clearly has contemporary significance, and remains relevant even today. An impressive amount of information is conveyed in a few sparse exchanges during a brief meeting, aided by physical positioning of the characters vis-à-vis each other (two Communists vs. the Pope, two Westerners vs. an Asian, established powers vs. one on the rise).
Taken in the context of the world situation of the 1960s, of the nascent age of Free Love and birth control, of Paul Ehrlich's The Population Bomb, of China's 1964 nuclear test, Shoes of the Fisherman effectively sets the ideas and problems of the times in juxtaposition with each other. It doesn't have the answers, but it explores questions in greater depth than ordinarily done in popular fiction. (Take The Da Vinci Code, for example. Playing loose-and-fast with crytology and religion, Dan Brown's story feels contrived and detached from societal events. Twists and turns, but the disappointing ending relegates all that talk about women's role in the Church to just an afterthought.)
The film, though, is not without its flaws. As already noted, it has an excess of spectacle, unsurprising for a roadshow. There is great attention to detail, as with the lengthy scenes of the ritual events following the pope's death — placing the room under wax seal, smashing the pope's personal seals, long lines of cardinals marching into the conclave, etc. It is marvelous to gaze at the geometry, but one does get tired after the fourth slow procession that looks a lot like the first one. Edward Carfagno (Ben-Hur) and George Davis' (All About Eve) art direction was Oscar-nominated, and Erwin Hillier's cinematography is carefully composed and softly lit, with the occasional first-person or aerial shot to immerse the viewer in the character's perspective and to add variety. And, after all, the Vatican glitters with gold and splendor, so the film positively sparkles.
Likewise, the film has mixed success when departing from the main plot. One subplot falls flat, as the American reporter George Faber (David Janssen) tries to work out marital difficulties with his physician wife Ruth (Barbara Jefford). Given the international nature of the cast, the reporter adds a bit of Americanization to ensure the film's success at the US box office, and also provides an excuse to narrate the proceedings and explain the conclave process to the viewer. But marital infidelity is a big cliché of 1960s films, which all seemed to think it was the daring thing to do. Shoes doesn't introduce anything new or interesting into this hackneyed plot point, and feels not a little like a dress rehearsal for the soap-operatic Airport. Perhaps it would read better in the novel than it plays on film.
But another subplot, apparently silly and light, brings much warmth to the Kiril character, who previously existed only in terms of political machinations and lofty spirtual ideas. After being elected pope, he sneaks out of the Vatican with the help of his valet, disguising himself as a simple city priest. Going slumming, if you will, though Lakota is serious about his duties as bishop of Rome, and feels that he should know the city better. Amidst lover's quarrels, street markets, automobile traffic, and children at play, Kiril is delighted as he soaks up the vitality of everyday life around him. In yet another implausible, Ruth Faber nearly hits him in her car while making a house call to a dying patient, but far from being upset or shaken, he offers to help the good doctor in any way that he can. After an episode trying to buy medicine at the corner drugstore without any cash in his pocket, he prays at the man's bedside and is told that the residents are Jewish. Without missing a beat, he begins praying in Hebrew and the Jews join in. There are some parallels to John Paul II, who has received praise for reaching out to the Jewish community and the world's other religions.
Kiril's visit outside the Vatican conveys an intent on engagement with the outside world, and extends an earlier sequence of lengthy establishing shots as Kiril is driven around Rome after his flight from Moscow. Here, unlike elsewhere in the film, the pictures are not just spectacle but mean something, as Kiril is delighted by watching the street life pass by. These shots add to our understanding of a man who'd lived in icy Siberia for a decade, who possesses a curiosity and a zest for life that has been denied to him for so long. Furthermore, his desire to be just a shepherd tending his flock sets up his later decision to return the church to its humbler roots.
The acting is excellent and helps suspend disbelief at events. Oscar Werner stands out as the intellectual cleric at odds with his Church, conflicted and desperately trying to reconcile his beliefs; Anthony Quinn makes for an unlikely Pope but is just the right character for Kiril, a bit unsure of himself after years in a labor camp, but gradually finding his way; and Burt Kwouk's straightforward and insistent Chairman Peng I've already noted. Laurence Olivier loses some of his commanding edge by affecting a Russian accent. One gets the feeling that some of the energy normally put into emphasis and expression was instead channeled towards rolling his r's. David Janssen's reporter is resolutely American, with a the twang in his voice and a solemn delivery appropriate for an age when the nightly television newscast was a prestige loss leader.
Thus, The Shoes of the Fisherman is a fascinating film that dramatizes the much-watched but normally-unseen process of a papal conclave, while tackling several difficult issues of the 1960s. In terms of relevance it is hard to match. But despite the plaudits it deserves as a whole, it does lose steam at points. For a 162-minute film, it ought to get more mileage out of the topics brought up, or else be cut more tightly. There's not much tension, for example, in Father Telemond's crisis, interrupted as it is by the papal conclave and by lengthy spectacles, so that when he finally is sentenced to silence, there's less a feeling of agony than surprise that he's still in the picture. A good film that could be better, but nevertheless a worthy glimpse into the conflicts of its time.
As such, The Shoes of the Fisherman also provides some interesting historical notes when viewed in a modern context. During the 2005 papal conclave, there was much talk about the changing geographical face of the Catholic Church, with The New York Times providing an online graph of elector origins over time. The 1950s elections included a cardinal from the Soviet Union and from China, but these unexpected data points received no comment. Shoes has a Ukrainian cardinal who gets elected pope, and one of the scrutineers during the balloting is Asian. Also, as the cardinals arrive for the conclave, there is a disproportionate (by the numbers) emphasis on the African and Eastern cardinals, a hint of how diverse the Church is slowly becoming. At the time of the film, popes still used the royal first person (we/our/us), and were carried in a chair to be crowned, both of which practices have since ended. Faber, in fact, presents criticisms of the lavish coronation ceremony to the television audience. The role of individual conscience in conflict with Church rules has become a fracture point today, and is interesting when applied to the liberalizing Vatican II church of the 1960s.
Technical
Solid DVD transfer. Good colors, the red of the cardinals popping out amid a dark background and the gold glittering in the light. The Lenin statues and paintings do seem a bit much for the Soviet and Chinese control rooms, but this is more a fable than a speculative history, anyway. The stock footage of crowds and faces in St. Peter's Square match reasonably well against the staged shots, with a difference in color saturation being the main giveaway.
Music
The music rates a wow! Alex North had just been kicked off 2001: A Space Odyssey after turning in a derivative, imitative score that tried to match each of Kubrick's classical selections point-by-point and ended up having little character of its own (the choral passage had no hope of competing with Lux Aeterna). But Fisherman fortuitously provided just the right setting for a reworked version of North's Zarathustra drop-in from 2001. Kubrick's film, after all, deals chiefly with the evolution of the human mind and spirit, and uses space exploration only as a backdrop. It is not much of a leap from Superman to Star-Child to Pontifex Maximus, God's representative on Earth, and North's modernized Wagnerianism evokes the majesty of the Church and the spiritual ambitions of Man. Though the rejection was devastating to North personally, sick and exhausted as he was (read the liner notes on the Alex North's 2001 soundtrack, North's account is a tearjerker), he recovered in fine style and both 2001 and Shoes have benefited. The modern scores work better here than they would have in 2001, and provide an undercurrent for the theme of the Church's role in the modern world.
There are also some incidentals done in a popular modern (1960s!) style, but these are not nearly as memorable as the various arrangements of a Ukrainian folk ballad. Transported to a symphony orchestra of more than one hundred pieces, the ballad's vaguely eastern strains become wistful, or lyrical, and yes, majestic. Not as talked-about as the 2001 adaptations, perhaps, but more memorable and melodic. When brought together, North's score smooths the transitions, punctuates the major events, and brings an excitement to Shoes that sets it firmly in the day-to-day developments of the world of 1968.
