The media frenzy of the past few weeks surrounding the death of Pope Francis, the following conclave and the election of Leo XIV is only the latest development in a wider cultural moment for the papacy. It comes a few months after the widespread success of Edward Berger’s Conclave, the latest iteration in a legacy of on-screen popes, both fictional and real. Movie directors have spearheaded this cultural moment, which includes Wim Wenders’ 2018 documentary Pope Francis: A Man of His Word, Fernando Meirelles’ The Two Popes (2019), Paolo Sorrentino’s The Young Pope (2016) and The New Pope (2020), as well as Nanni Moretti’s Habemus Papam (2011), among others. And yet, the film industry’s interest in the figure of the pope is neither new, nor surprising. It is but a part of the long history of the troubled and changing relationship between the sovereign pontiff and the visual arts.

Catholicism has always been a deeply visual religion. During the Middle Ages, it relied heavily on images, paintings or stained glass, to convey the teachings of the Bible to the illiterate masses. However, as surprising as it may sound for us, Medieval and Renaissance popes were not overly popular painting subjects. Indeed, their double status, as both heads of the Church and as kings among others, ruling over Rome and  the Papal States, obscured their religious role.

The French Revolution ushered in an era of nationalism and revolutionary spirit that would radically change the pope’s standing. In its wake, successive popes suffered military setbacks, culminating with the capture of Rome in 1870 by the Italian revolutionaries who unified Italy, which left only the small territory of Vatican Hill to the popes. Paradoxically, this loss transformed the image of the papacy. Now substantially weakened on the military and diplomatic fronts, investing in spiritual and symbolic practices was more necessary than ever.

In this, the papacy and the British monarchy are not entirely dissimilar: anachronistic to a fault and nearly powerless, both institutions benefit from the extreme mediatization of their symbolic power. As British historian David Cannadine explains, British monarchs shifted their focus to their symbolic role as their more direct political influence dwindled. Royal ceremonies became more magnificent, creating an eagerness for media representations in the general public. Their powerlessness placed them above political controversies, allowing them to become symbols of  national unity. Moreover, both the Papacy and the British monarchy quickly grabbed the attention of the freshly-born cinema industry. Pope Leo XIII, filmed in his open carriage in 1898, is in fact the earliest-born person to ever appear on film.

The relationship between the popes and the cinema industry would evolve into something more troubled and ambiguous. Each following pope allowed themselves to appear on film, and their appearances on the balcony of St Peter’s Basilica often featured in the newsreels, the forerunner of TV news which were shown in movie theatres before the start of movies. Meanwhile, the popes’ stance on feature films was less positive. In his 1936 encyclical (an official papal letter distributed to churches worldwide), Pius XI (1922-1939) endorsed the censoring of movies deemed immoral, and praised the now infamous Hays code, the set of guidelines responsible for the enforcement of conservative racial, gender and religious norms in Hollywood movies up to the 1960s.

Pius XII (1939-1958) had a more positive attitude toward cinema. In his 1957 encyclical Miranda Prosurs, he relaxed his predecessor’s stance, recognizing its potential for spreading the Gospel’s teaching. He was intimately aware of it, as the protagonist of two full-length documentary movies, Pastor Angelicus (1942) and Guerra alla Guerra (1946). Beyond his openness to featuring in films, historian John F. Pollard explains that Pius XII intentionally made the papacy and the Vatican more telegenic. He moved his papal coronation in 1939 to St Peter’s square, making the ceremony not just visible to newsreel cameras but also more dramatic and visually impressive with its grand outdoor setting and larger audience. He allowed all the celebrations of the 1950 jubilee to be filmed and was the first pope to appear live on television in 1954. Religious historian Federico Ruozzi calls Pius XII the first “modern-media pope”. This mediatization allowed him to reach unprecedented worldwide popularity. Although his reputation is now contested due to accusations of complacency toward Nazi Germany, Pius XII set a precedent that has never been challenged, making the pope into a media figure.

John XXIII (1958-1963) continued on this path. He starred in La Giornata del Papa, a documentary on his daily life, shown throughout Italy’s network of parish-owned cinemas. In the 1960s, these cinemas accounted for half of all movie theaters in the country and their influence (and censorship) is deftly captured in Giuseppe Tornatore’s 1988 Cinema Paradiso. John XXIII’s church even had a positive reaction to The Gospel according to St. Matthew (1964) directed by Pier Paolo Pasolini, an openly queer marxist. The movie received an official screening in Vatican City where it was warmly received by the 800 churchmen attending the Second Vatican Council.

History reveals a symbiotic relationship between the popes and cinema: since their loss of power as heads of State, they have relied on their status and image to exert influence, while filmmakers have drawn inspiration from the inherently visual nature of papal ceremonies. This reciprocity is evident in the way fiction films incorporate real archival footage and try to reconstitute the ceremonies as faithfully as possible. Both Habemus Papam and The Two Popes integrate TV archives from John Paul II’s funeral with fictional scenes, implicitly acknowledging papal rituals’ inherent status as cinematographic spectacles.

Sorrentino’s The Young Pope explores this dynamic most explicitly when Jude Law’s Pius XIII refuses to be photographed, creating a media uproar. He explains this move to his media advisor as a strategic response to Vatican’s over-reliance on visibility. If “the Vatican only survives thanks to hyperbole”, then he must either make its ceremonies even more magnificent, by reverting to the use of the gestatorial chair, a golden throne carried by twelve footmen, or become like Banksy or Daft Punk—creating desire through absence. Yet, Sorrentino ultimately shows the opposite: it is by witnessing Pius XIII in action that every character, even the manipulative Cardinal Voiello, develops genuine respect for him, culminating in the pope’s decision to reveal himself to the world on the balcony of St Mark’s Basilica. 

In this, Pope Francis was the exact opposite of Jude Law’s fictional pope. Rather than trying to appear imposing and inaccessible, he decided not to use most of the ornaments associated with papacy and stayed in the Vatican guest house rather than in the apostolic palace. His humble appearance and clothing was, however, still an aesthetic choice which was made stronger by the contrast with the adornments of the Vatican’s buildings. After all, even the sovereign pontiff’s attire can be seen as a fashion statement, as Federico Fellini reminded us with his surrealist ecclesiastical fashion show in Roma (1972).  

The journey from temporal ruler to global media icon, which began with the fall of the Papal States, has culminated in an era where the pope’s spiritual authority is inseparable from his visual presence and mediatization—a new form of power that cinema has not merely documented but actively created. At first glance, Leo XIV’s decision to appear on St Peter’s Basilica balcony with a red shoulder cover and an ornate red and gold stole, which Francis pointedly eschewed, might signal a return to a more theatrical—and camera-catching—aesthetic of papal power.