Benedetta

If you’ve ever wondered what happens when you hand a $25 million budget and a medieval convent to the man who gave us RoboCop and Basic Instinct, the answer is a glorious, blasphemous, and surprisingly intellectual riot. Paul Verhoeven has spent his entire career poking the beehive of polite society, and at age 82, he decided to set the beehive on fire while wearing a nun’s habit. I watched Benedetta on a rainy Tuesday while eating a bowl of cold cereal because my microwave had just kicked the bucket, and there was something oddly monastic about the lonely crunching of Corn Flakes while watching 17th-century Italian nuns grapple with the divine.

Benedetta is a film that was practically born to be a "lost" masterpiece. Released in 2021, it hit that awkward post-pandemic theatrical window where audiences were still skittish and subtitles felt like homework to a public exhausted by reality. It premiered at Cannes to the usual mix of pearls-clutching and standing ovations, then basically vanished into the streaming ether, earning back a fraction of its budget. It’s a shame, because this isn't just a "nunsploitation" flick; it’s a searing look at how power, faith, and sexuality collide when the world is ending.

A Saint, a Sinner, or a Strategist?

The film rests entirely on the shoulders of Virginie Efira, who plays Benedetta Carlini with a terrifying level of ambiguity. From a young age, Benedetta claims to be in direct communication with Jesus. Is she a true mystic receiving the stigmata, or is she a world-class performance artist manipulating a patriarchal system to gain autonomy? Efira plays it both ways simultaneously. When she’s writhing on the floor in a "trance," her voice dropping to a gravelly, demonic baritone, you aren't sure whether to call an exorcist or an acting coach.

The conflict ignites when a young, abused woman named Bartolomea (Daphné Patakia) seeks refuge in the convent. She represents the "earthly" to Benedetta’s "heavenly," and their subsequent affair is filmed with Verhoeven’s trademark lack of modesty. But here’s the thing: Verhoeven treats the Catholic Church with the same satirical bite he gave the futuristic fascists in Starship Troopers. The romance isn't just about lust; it’s about two women finding a loophole in a world designed to suppress them.

Then there’s Charlotte Rampling as Sister Felicita, the old-guard Abbess. Rampling is a godsend here, playing a woman who views religion as a business of ledgers and reputations. Her skepticism of Benedetta’s "miracles" isn't necessarily about a lack of faith, but a weary understanding of how much a "miracle" costs in administrative headaches. Watching her and Efira go toe-to-toe is like watching two grandmasters play chess with souls on the line.

Faith in the Time of Pestilence

What makes Benedetta feel so "now," despite its 1600s setting, is the encroaching shadow of the Black Death. As the plague ravages the surrounding Italian countryside, the convent becomes a microcosm of our own recent history—denial, quarantine, and the desperate search for a savior. Lambert Wilson shows up as a Nuncio (a high-ranking Church official) who represents the ultimate institutional corruption. He’s more afraid of a woman claiming power than he is of the literal plague at his gates.

The cinematography by Jeanne Lapoirie is lush but never feels "pretty" just for the sake of it. There’s a constant sense of filth and sweat beneath the gold leaf and white linens. Verhoeven doesn't shy away from the grotesque, whether it’s the physical reality of the plague or the brutal punishments the Church metes out. It’s a movie that understands that in the 17th century, the barrier between the spiritual and the physical was paper-thin. It’s the only movie that features both a divine stigmata and a carved wooden Virgin Mary used as a sex toy, yet it still feels more spiritually honest than most Oscar-bait biopics.

The Mystery of the Missing Audience

Why did this movie flop? Part of it is definitely the "Verhoeven Factor." He refuses to give the audience the comfort of a clear moral high ground. He wants you to be uncomfortable. Also, let’s be real: North American audiences in 2021 weren't exactly lining up for a French-language historical drama about lesbian nuns during a period when we were all trying to forget about infectious diseases.

But the trivia behind the scenes is fascinating. The film is actually based on the non-fiction book Immodest Acts by historian Judith C. Brown, who discovered the transcripts of Benedetta’s trial in the Florentine archives. Almost all the wildest elements—the "vocal possessions," the specific details of the relationship—are taken directly from historical record. Verhoeven and co-writer David Birke (who also wrote the brilliant Elle) didn't have to invent much to make this story shocking.

Even the most controversial prop in the film—that aforementioned Virgin Mary statuette—reportedly caused a minor diplomatic incident at Cannes, with protestors calling it an "insult to the faith." But Verhoeven’s defense has always been that he’s just showing what people actually do. He’s a realist who happens to love the absurd.

Benedetta is a wild, intelligent, and deeply provocative piece of cinema that deserves a much larger life on home screens than it got in theaters. It’s a drama that isn't afraid to be funny, a romance that isn't afraid to be ugly, and a religious film that actually takes the concept of "vision" seriously. If you’re tired of the sanitized, safe dramas that populate the streaming charts, this is the spicy, sacrilegious antidote you’ve been looking for. Just maybe don't watch it with your grandmother—unless she’s a fan of Charlotte Rampling and has a very high tolerance for 17th-century chaos.