Francis, God's Jester

Roberto Rossellini's 1950 retelling of the story of St. Francis of Assisi and his fellow monks is a beautifully unpretentious piece of spiritual cinema: a personal rebellion against the Biblical spectacles that Hollywood was regularly churning out on the other side of the Atlantic.


On Titles

Oh, how much is in a name! This film goes by two of them: The Flowers of St. Francis and Francis, God's Jester. Several years ago, I had a chance to watch the former, and didn't. Several weeks ago, I came upon the latter, and did. Not only do I still find the first title unappealing, but I'm not sure where it comes from. Francis, God's Jester is both closer to the original Italian title and makes more sense within the film. The Flowers of St. Francis is simply a mystery.


Let there be light!

God's Jester starts in the dark and in the rain.


A group of monks come down a muddy road.


As the rain pours, they suddenly stop in their sandals and wet tunics, and start to talk. As the conversation builds, Rossellini cuts between several shots:


Then, just as suddenly as they'd stopped, the monks burst into a hymn and set off again!

Across the river, running...


From darkness, into light: singing about God, running towards St. Francis.


For these monks, lightness is a change of soul—an inner condition—rather than something external like the breaking of a rain cloud. Their joy, rendered visible by Rossellini, is independent of atmospheric conditions or material possessions.


Spiritual Realism?

One of the extras on Crtierion's version of God's Jester is an interview with an Italian film historian who tries to place the film in the context of Rossellini's filmography. Prior to God's Jester, the historian says, Rossellini made his famous neo-realist war trilogy (Open City, Paisan, and Germany: Year Zero); after God's Jester, he'd go on to make a series of films about alienation and existential malaise—which the historian likens to Antonioni's work. How, then, do we understand poor St. Francis?


It's certainly tempting to see elements of both neo-realism and existentialism in the film, and some fine arguments could, I'm sure, be made to support both.

For instance, are Francis and his band of merry monks not the embodiment of the communist and socialist themes that run through Rossellini's war films? And are they not waging a type of war against the brutish world of 13th-century Italy? Furthermore, what exact signs of God does Rossellini provide?


Me: I see only the constant melancholy expression on the face of St. Francis, which suggests a wisdom based not on a special understanding of the divine, but, rather, on the realization that, in the absence of God, it is divine to believe in Him. Is goodness done in the name of a non-existent God devoid of meaning? Is Francis a saint because he has the power to grant meaning to the lives of his followers? Rossellini teases, and it sure is tantalizing to tug at all the loose strings to see what comes undone.

But pull on too many and everything falls apart: sometimes it's necessary and even fruitful to control the auteurist impulse. Read God's Jester too much as a cinematic link—the tail of one Rossellini period and the nose of another—and lose appreciation for the film itself, I think.


God made the humble to confuse the minimalists

Several critics refer to God's Jester as a minimalist film. I disagree. I understand minimalism as a style that an artist, in this case a filmmaker, consciously applies to an artwork, shaping content to fit a desired form. The result is usually somewhat artificial and more often than not is meant to be noticed by the viewer. In other words: minimalist style is not invisible style.


In cinema, I see minimalism consisting of long takes, an unmoving camera, sparse sets, little dialogue, subdued colours, and uncluttered, simple compositions. Although God's Jester does contain some of these elements, they never take precedence over practical considerations. For example, while much of the film is shot from a stationary camera, when panning best captures a character's movement or best shows the spatial relationship between two objects, Rossellini pans.

Or, when it's necessary to lower the camera from Rossellini's favoured eye-level position, to show someone on the ground perhaps, the camera comes humbly down.


I, therefore, see Rossellini as more the humble stylist than the strict minimalist in God's Jester. Much like Francis himself, Rossellini sheds dogma when dogma becomes contrary to the attainment of his goals. Prayer and quiet reverence are good, but there's a blessedness in heating up the kettle and making soup, too.


Humble style isn't minimal style, but one that compromises and adapts. In God's Jester, Rossellini juggles classical composed beauty, religious iconography, and realism. And while he shifts through these styles effortlessly, it's never done to show off. Piety, not pride.


St. Francis & The Leper

God's Jester is composed as a series of vignettes. The quality of these vignettes varies, but my favourite is one of the shortest. Quiet, dark, simple and wordless, it recounts a nighttime meeting between Francis and a wandering leper. One of those wonderfully cinematic sequences that appear in films from time to time, I'll not spoil it with words:


Conclusion

Roberto Rossellini's Francis, God's Jester is a wonderful film—transcending style, genre, and some down-right poor dubbing to become one of the greatest filmworks about religion ever made. Ingmar Bergman must have been watching closely.