Conclave begins with the image of a cardinal tensely making his way along a Roman highway late at night, his crimson biretta cap clasped tightly in his hand. It’s a stark, almost funny image, the elegant robes of this high priest trudging through a bleak, contemporary urban setting. The characters of Conclave won’t spend much time in the world at large — this is one of the few times we will see one outside in Edward Berger’s film — but the dissonance will continue to resonate. These are men carrying out what they view as an ancient function: electing a new Pope, now that the old one has died. They diligently shut out the modern world, but it’s still there, outside the windows and beyond the doors, constantly felt in everything they do.

At the center of the squall is Thomas Lawrence (Ralph Fiennes), the dean of the College of Cardinals, whose job it is to run the conclave, as cardinals from around the world gather inside the hallowed sanctuary of the Sistine Chapel to cast ballots for a new pontiff. It’s a perfect role for Fiennes, who can do both placidity and intensity — sometimes, somehow, all at once. Thomas exudes gentleness and tolerance. He’s a deeply conflicted man who admits, in an initial address to the conclave, that he values doubt and abhors certainty — and yet, as the picture proceeds, he becomes more obsessed with controlling the outcome.

Berger’s film is adapted, quite faithfully, from Robert Harris’s 2016 novel, and it combines the pulp velocity of a great airport read with the gravitas of high drama. It solemnly depicts the ornate rituals around the death of the Pope — the ribbons placed across his door and fastened with melted red wax, the seals clipped off his rings, the constant prayers and the secretive mutterings — with only a slight nod to the sheer pointlessness of it all. It means something to these men, and that’s enough. Same, too, with the lugubrious dance of the conclave itself, with its round after round of balloting and tallying and quiet reflecting.

Many film critics who participate in year-end awards voting will find themselves nodding with recognition during Conclave at how allegiances shift between ballots in response to who’s ahead, who’s likely to win, and whose support seems to be crumbling. I have no idea how accurate this is to the way cardinals actually vote, but both the book and the movie have the confident ring of truth, or at least truthiness. And it’s interesting to learn that the Very Serious Men who elect popes scheme as effectively as the New York Film Critics Circle did when it voted (well-deserving) underdog Rachel Weisz best actress in 2012 to prevent front-runners Jessica Chastain and Jennifer Lawrence from getting the prize instead; or when the warring camps of Days of Heaven and Deer Hunter supporters at the National Society of Film Critics in 1978 famously fought each other to a standstill and allowed Bertrand Blier’s Get Out Your Handkerchiefs to sneak in and win Best Picture that year.

Where was I? Oh, right, Conclave. Amid such stately ceremony, Berger finds ways to insert gradually escalating tumult and cattiness. Though he tries to be fair and balanced, Thomas is allied with Aldo Bellini (Stanley Tucci), a progressive candidate who wants to continue the Church’s liberalization and engagement with the world. Opposing them is Goffredo Tedesco (Sergio Castellitto), a reactionary Italian who thinks the Church has been on the wrong track ever since it got rid of the Latin Mass in the 1960s. But there are other candidates as well — chiefly, Joseph Tremblay (John Lithgow), a supreme politician who, for all his outward soft-spoken humility, clearly has great ambitions. And then there’s Joshua Adeyemi (Lucian Msamati), a charismatic cardinal from Nigeria who could become the first Black pope.

None of these people actively campaign for the papacy. Save maybe for the flamboyant Tedesco (a not very big role that Castellitto turns into a full, rollicking meal), they’re all lowered eyebrows and hushed whispers and collegial exchanges, soberly prostrating themselves before God and seeking His guidance…all the while quietly and viciously stabbing each other in the back. Such muted machinations present a wonderful showcase for these actors, as well as Isabella Rossellini, as a head nun who becomes more central to the plot, and the relatively unknown Mexican actor Carlos Diehz, as a heretofore unknown cardinal named Vincent Benitez. Secretly named the Archbishop of Kabul, Benitez shows up unannounced on the day of the conclave and sends what promised to be a predictable gathering into the first of its many entertaining tailspins.

Despite the fact that they’ve all been cocooned deep inside the Vatican, with the doors barred, the priests of Conclave are all quite aware of how everything they do will have real-world repercussions, particularly in the way the Church is perceived. That fragile isolation isn’t just a psychological element. We sense throughout that the outside world is undergoing turmoil of which these men are mostly unaware — though we suspect they soon will be, both metaphorically and physically. Berger expertly milks that anticipation, then nails several artfully heated and lively climaxes. My audience at the Telluride Film Festival began roaring with delight and surprise, and I’ve heard similar reports out of Toronto screenings as well. So, well, don’t be surprised if this sinfully entertaining movie wins a few awards.

Disclaimer: “Speak No Evil” has not yet been released in theaters, with its wide-scale distribution officially set to begin Friday. The Lantern recently participated in an early film screening as well as a virtual roundtable interview with lead actress Mackenzie Davis.

Snakes. Heights. The dark. These common fears are widely acknowledged as daunting. 

“Speak No Evil” — director James Watkins’ English-language remake of Danish director Christian Tafdrup’s 2022 film by the same name — draws attention to another primordial fear that may just be more frightening than any other: dinner parties. 

Whether it’s dinner with in-laws, drinks with co-workers or high school reunions, everyone has had to begrudgingly put on a good face to maintain the fragile balance of politeness and decorum that keeps an awkward situation from getting ugly. 

In “Speak No Evil,” an American family befriends an overly exuberant British couple while on vacation, eventually agreeing to spend a few days at their house so their shy children can bond with one another. 

What starts as a seemingly successful playdate quickly turns into a fascinating battle of wills between the two sets of parents, as the British couple’s eccentric personalities begin to make the Americans question if their hosts are hiding a dark secret.

“Speak No Evil” isn’t a horror movie in the traditional sense of the term. It lacks the jumpscares and consistent frights necessary to consistently conform to the genre, but what it does offer is arguably more terrifying. 

The film explores how much people will excuse in the name of courtesy, even if it comes at the expense of their own well-being — or their immediate safety. 

Though it may not be the most textbook horror flick, “Speak No Evil” is overpoweringly uneasy. 

The sometimes-cringe, sometimes-disturbing feeling permeating through the screen isn’t caused by gore or monsters; rather, this discomfort emerges from filmmakers pointing a mirror at viewers, suggesting that if they were in a similar situation, they’d express similar behaviors to avoid an uncomfortable conversation or two.

The main controversy surrounding “Speak No Evil” is its remake status, seeing as the original film was released just two years ago. Some have criticized the apparent need to pander to English-speaking audiences that are too lazy to read subtitles. 

It’s true the newest “Speak No Evil” doesn’t do much to justify its existence, apart from featuring a terrifying performance from James McAvoy — arguably his best showing since his role as a young Professor X in the “X-Men” franchise. 

The film is essentially a beat-for-beat remake of its Danish predecessor, with the only notable difference being its slightly more comedic tone.

Debates around remakes aside, “Speak No Evil” is here, and it’s undoubtedly an entertaining, well-paced horror-comedy that features great performances from its leads, including McAvoy and Mackenzie Davis (“Black Mirror,” “The Martian”). 

Ultimately, “Speak No Evil” is an uncomfortably relatable film that adds to 2024’s growing slate of underappreciated horror flicks.

Rating: 3.5/5

Lorne Michaels should send a check to Sony.

Because the studio’s sent him a love letter. In their new movie “Saturday Night,” a madcap comedy about the 90-minute dash leading up to the 1975 debut episode of “SNL,” the show’s famously enigmatic creator is lionized. 

Michaels, the most important behind-the-scenes comedic force of the past 50 years, is placed on an innovator pedestal alongside the likes of Steve Jobs and Mark Zuckerberg, only without their personal downsides.

He’s portrayed as an optimistic young underdog with an improbably bold vision: a completely live, weekly sketch series starring inexperienced, unpolished nobodies in a desert island of time slots.

His “This is Sparta!” speech comes during the climax, when Lorne (Gabriel LaBelle) is grilled by NBC exec David Tebet (Willem Dafoe) about what “Saturday Night Live” exactly is.

Michaels, finding his confidence in real time, tells doubting David it’s discovering a hot new comic at the back of a bar downtown, or being swept up by the music at a tucked-away jazz club.

“It’s everything you think is going to happen when you move to the city,” says a then-30-year-old Michaels. “That’s ‘Saturday Night.’” 

And that’s the stuff of goose bumps.

The David-and-Goliath confrontation is the best and most grounded scene in Jason Reitman’s never-less-than-likable film, which had its international premiere Tuesday at the Toronto International Film Festival. 

The plot barrels forward like the brakes are broken. And, being a Tour de Frantic, it can be hard to keep up. The gist is that this massive TV hit that spawned countless stars was nearly a disaster that didn’t make it to air. Execs were ready to roll a “Tonight Show” rerun instead. 

Knowing this is his only chance, Michaels races around 30 Rock and Studio 8H attempting to get his scrappy creation up and running.  

He must control his boisterous young stars, who treat the office as a kegger — or worse. John Belushi (Matt Wood, a find) refuses to sign his contract and heads to a bar. George Carlin (Matthew Rhys), the first host, gets lockjaw from snorting too much cocaine. 

The set’s not finished and the dress rehearsal ran three hours. An NBC page (Finn Wolfhard) stands outside on 48th Street begging passersby to be audience members.

On the periphery of the art, there are corporate concerns. The affiliates are in town to decide if they even want to air whatever this is. And whiny network stars Milton Berle (J.K. Simmons) and Johnny Carson are threatened by the annexation of their late-night turf. 

For a movie that’s barely longer than an episode of “SNL,” that’s a lot of ground to cover. And those “Noises Off”-style backstage snafus are just a small sampling of all the action. But Reitman ably crams it in, even if the onslaught occasionally gives us whiplash. 

Always in motion, “Saturday Night” can be a bit like if Joan Cusack’s sprint at the start of “Broadcast News” lasted for an hour and 45 minutes.

Since the characters barely get a chance to catch their breath, let alone say their piece, we don’t learn much about them beyond familiar traits. However, Reitman’s aim isn’t to seriously illuminate that fateful night so much as to energetically add to showbiz mythology. 

The director said onstage at the premiere that, during interviews, the real talents’ accounts of that first show all contradicted each other. We can tell, but the absurdity is part of the fun.

On Oct. 11, 1975, Gilda Radner, Chevy Chase and Dan Aykroyd were not yet household names. They barely mattered in their own studio. But over the course of that year, they’d explode. 

So it’s fitting that, in casting actors to play them, Reitman chose some of Hollywood’s most talented rising stars who America will soon know very well.

LaBelle, a revelation as a young Steven Spielberg in “The Fabelmans,” wows once again as Michaels, another dreamer. 

I never guessed that Cory Michael Smith, who I’ve watched for years onstage and in Todd Haynes’ films, would make such an uncanny and hilarious Chase with a gift for punch lines.

Cooper Hoffman, whose star-is-born moment came in “Licorice Pizza,” brings that same charming gumption to producer Dick Ebersol. And Ella Hunt exudes Radner’s easy effervescence. 

The cast is sadly too gigantic to list off. Some are skilled impressionists, while others manage to get to the meat of their person. Like the aftermath of a sketch being cut from an “SNL” episode, there are times when you wish you could see a lot more of certain performers.

In any case — and who would’ve thought I’d be saying this about a man who barely speaks — the real magic here is LaBelle’s Michaels. Live from New York, it’s Lorne!