Alice Rohrwacher’s Corpo Celeste (Heavenly Body) follows a twelve-year-old girl as her faith gradually unravels in the spaces where it should be confirmed. With Martha’s family’s return to their native Calabria, Martha (Yle Vianello) comes into a world where religion is a major part of society. The Roman Catholic Church is involved in every aspect of Calabrian society, from the personal, such as the parish housing Martha’s family stays in, to the political, where the religious authorities rig the elections, creating considerable consequences for breaking from faith. As the pressure to come of age, bodily and faithfully, increases, friction develops between Martha and the church.
Though Rohrwacher’s film borrows many traditional coming-of-age tactics, Corpo Celeste feels unique in its intimate delivery. We follow Martha stealing her older sister’s bra, trying it on, and spending time looking at her chest in the mirror. She is waiting for something to change in the same way she waits for her faith to strengthen. A scene mid-film where Martha studies a female presenter on the evening television particularly illustrates this notion. The camera focuses on a golden cross resting on her cleavage, then pans to Martha, who mimics the action with her chest. Becoming older seems to be intrinsically linked to accepting faith, and most of the older women around Martha seem to fulfill this example.
However, this older generation’s religious strength seems to be slipping, causing subtle but pronounced fear amongst the parish. The resulting desperation seeps into all of Martha’s interactions with the church, especially her Confirmation classes. The classes are led by Santa (Pasqualini Scuncia), a stereotypical devout Catholic. As a strong believer in the doctrine, she finds her place in reinforcing tradition and the church in her community. Despite her role as a teacher, which implies patience, Santa enforces her beliefs on the children quite forcefully. Mid-film, she slaps Martha across the face for refusing to attest to her faith. The moment feels highly ironic, as Martha should choose to profess but is not allowed to.
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Furthermore, in the parish’s hurry to secure more adherents, the teachings that are shared with Martha and her peers feel decidedly artificial and commercialized. Constant references to pop culture attempt to engage the teenagers but instead diminish its relevance. Even the arrival of an older crucifix from the village of the parish’s priest, Father Mario (Salvatore Cantalupo), seems tinged with commercialism. The splendor of the event around it and the potential to sway the bishop with it seem to remain more important than anything spiritual, especially to Martha. With this doubt, the film gradually builds towards its final climax and introduces a differing religious opinion from the very priest that Father Mario steals the crucifix from.
The priest, portrayed by Renato Carpentieri, describes Jesus as frustrated, angry, and in pain. He humanizes him, juxtaposing the familiar idea of a flawless and generous Jesus with the more believable idea of one who struggles, is not believed, and is exhausted. Martha, who can certainly appreciate this idea, clearly sees that her church and its leaders do not follow this path. The narrative also often returns to her mother, Rita (Anita Caprioli), who works almost constantly to support her two daughters, such that in her moments of respite she’s often attempting to sleep. In Martha’s mind, Rita is the figure that is the closest to Jesus in her affection, love, and sacrifice.
Moreover, the inherent juxtaposition between the qualities that the faithful should have and that the church upholds reveals great hypocrisy on the church’s part. Martha’s mother admits to Father Mario that her work, though she appreciates his help in securing it, tires her; just for Father Mario to tell her to stop complaining. He claims that he has much more work to do through his spirituality, though on the contrary, he seems to dodge his parish responsibilities whenever possible. He’s often found doodling on his notes, whisking himself off to answer an unusual number of phone calls, and opening envelopes stuffed with money.
One of Martha’s happiest moments is quickly snuffed out by the church, or rather, a gruff man who works there. Martha happily discovers a box of kittens in the church basement and a crowd gathers around them. However, Santa sends her and her classmates and takes the kittens away, treating them like vermin. Martha watches, horrified, as the man places them in a bag to kill them, though he waits to move further from the church. Martha leaves the church, both metaphorically and physically, in an attempt to save them. Martha is in search of miracles, and none of the miracles of life are inside the church.
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As Martha is supposed to assume more faith, her experiences underline the performative nature of faith by the faithful around her. At every junction, her concrete truths, such as kindness and fairness, are contrasted with the almost farcical priorities of the members of the church. Corpo Celeste is not a film that outrightly attacks the Roman Catholic Church, but instead uses Martha’s experiences to carefully undermine its sanctitude.
Corpo Celeste’s filmmaking and masterful inclusion of diegetic sound create an atmosphere with striking intimacy—a testament to both Rohrwacher’s documentary experience and Hélène Louvart’s (The Beaches of Agnès, Bye Bye Blondie, Never Rarely Sometimes Always) cinematography. The viewers stay entirely centered in Martha’s narrative, and the camera stays in proximity to her and her perspective. Would fully recommend this film to those who enjoy coming of age (complete with obligatory haircuts) and subtle yet moving narratives with female perspectives, especially to do with religion.