Perhaps it should come as no surprise that one of the most common problems a novelist faces when creating fictional characters is the problem every person must face: the struggle to know thyself. In a first-person novel, a narrator gifted with all-knowing personal insight isn’t just unrealistic, it’s also pretty annoying. I find little to like about literary characters who make their exhaustive self-knowledge known, who aspire to carry a torch into every dark corner of their subconscious, who have healed their childhood wounds beneath the band-aids of therapy speak. No, I prefer them to stumble over what they have yet to learn about themselves. They’re the most compelling because they are human.
At the same time, however, this kind of myopia might seem like an impediment to novelists writing in first-person. And in many ways, it is. But it is possible to overcome this—and give the reader a clearer lens into the world—by placing a narrator in conversation with other characters who can reflect aspects of themselves they might not be aware of or disclose on their own. (How many times has a friend given you a pep talk to remind you of your best qualities? How many times did your ex call you conceited?) This technique is used to great effect in Conclave, Edward Berger’s Catholic thriller about 118 cardinals sequestered to pick the next pope.
The plot is easy to follow. The pope has died of a heart attack. The cardinals have withdrawn to the Vatican to vote for his replacement, a secret process known as a conclave. But closeness to godliness doesn’t make a person less petty or temperamental or ambitious—just the opposite. Thankfully, there’s Cardinal Lawrence, played by Ralph Fiennes, who has been appointed by the pope to serve as dean of the conclave. Lawrence is quickly established as the moral center of the film, a man at once diplomatic and humble and honest, driven by the kind of “one last job” mentality normally reserved for retiring bank robbers and beat cops.
This final job is not the job that he wanted. In his last conversation with the pope, he tendered his resignation as dean, but was refused. “Some were chosen to be shepherds and some to manage the farm,” the pope insisted. “Apparently, I am a manager,” Lawrence says to Cardinal Bellini (played by Stanley Tucci), in an early scene in the film.
This scene captures something I find effective, and necessary, in first-person novels. Lawrence is not an unreliable source of self-knowledge, but there are limits to what he knows of himself. The film uses another person’s perspective to shed light on the characteristics he does not—or will not—see in himself. Before this moment, Lawrence’s skill as dean seemed obvious. Now, it is a source of internal conflict. Fiennes captures this conflict in a brief scene in which Lawrence struggles to open his toiletries bag. “You’re a manager,” he mutters to himself in defeat. “Manage.” This intense, isolated moment expands on the conversation with Bellini. Even alone, Lawrence cannot shake the expectations others have placed on him.
Conclave does an excellent job of complicating the viewer’s understanding of Lawrence over the course of the movie. Fittingly, it does this by employing the same technique used to establish his credibility. After discovering that Cardinal Tremblay (John Lithgow) might have intentionally sabotaged another cardinal’s campaign for pope, Lawrence confronts Tremblay alone. Tremblay denies the charge and goes a step further, accusing Lawrence of being overambitious, in pursuit of the position of pope, despite his stated reluctance for it. Tremblay isn’t the only one who believes this about Lawrence: “Your own ambition has not gone unnoticed,” he says. The accusation is hard to unhear, especially since it recalls the earlier conversation between Bellini and Lawrence. When the former’s campaign has crumbled—in part because Lawrence has unwillingly absorbed his votes—he insists Lawrence desires the papacy. Lawrence denies it; he claims to have never even considered taking on the position. “Every cardinal has that desire,” Bellini responds. “Every cardinal, deep down, has already chosen the name by which he would like his papacy to be known.” Taken together, these interactions cast doubt on Lawrence’s sense of self-knowledge. He was in denial over his skill as a manager. Could he also be in denial about his ambition? Later, the viewer will learn Bellini is right about Lawrence—he has chosen a name.
I couldn’t care less about who has the most accurate read on Lawrence. What matters is that, for all of his admirable characteristics, Lawrence cannot see himself the way others do. And through these secondary characters, the viewer deepens their understanding of Lawrence and the world he inhabits. Character development rarely follows the path of one person coming to terms with who they are. At its best, it tracks how a person responds to the definitions and structures imposed on them. Conclave offers a window into that space where the self and the other align to create a richer portrait of the self. Lawrence is driven by contradictory desires, but the viewer only uncovers those contradictions through his interactions and deeds. His view of himself is limited—he might not want the papacy, but he has chosen a name. He is not untrustworthy, yet he cannot be trusted to determine his own motivations. Lawrence wants what he doesn’t want; he struggles to accept who he is. There’s nothing more human than that.
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