Of Gods and Men

On awards night at the 63rd Cannes Film Festival, Tim Burton's jury gave its Grand Prix – effectively second place – to Xavier Beauvois' Of Gods and Men. Based on this year and last – when Jacques Audiard's A Prophet took the same prize behind Michael Haneke's Palme d'Or-winning The White Ribbon – one could argue that the Golden Palm is terrific but second place is the new ‘cool’ place to be.

Of Gods and Men features excellent performances in the service of a tale that, to be frank, sounds less than riveting. But if I had a euro for every colleague I heard utter a variation on "I'm an atheist, but I was moved to tears," my pockets would be bulging.

French viewers went in knowing that what they were about to see is based on historical facts. The English-speaking world loves to announce it when the film you're about to see is ‘based on a true story’ but the French assume that you keep up with current events (and that your idea of current events worth following perfectly meshes with theirs...).

In an Algerian mountain village in the mid-1990s, a humble community of eight French Christian monks makes honey and provides medical treatment for its poor Muslim neighbours. The brothers seem to range in age from 40-something to 80-something. They may have taken a vow of chastity but they radiate manly conviction. Every move they make – or decline to make – is an honest expression of their faith. They're motivated by love of god and a sense of mission. They may be a bit stubborn in certain situations but they're thoughtful and admirable.

"Remember – you have already given your life to God!" says the group's leader, Brother Christian, played with fervour by Lambert Wilson. So, if violent Islamic radicals are terrorising the local population and unsubtly suggesting that the Christian brothers clear out, the monks reason that the biggest risk is not to life and limb but to heart and soul. The members of the religious community examine their consciences with exemplary courage and act accordingly. What becomes of a life of contemplation when you're forced to "contemplate" the violent incursion of radical fundamentalists?

The Islamic radicals are so sure of their own righteous cause (and so oblivious to other systems of worship) that they crash the monastery on Christmas. When Brother Christian calls their attention to how impolite their transgression would be at any time but how supremely rude it is under the circumstances, the marauders' no-nonsense leader apologises.

It is a lesson in standing up for what you believe in – even if what you happen to believe may seem goofy to non-initiates. When the community of monks weighs a request to be in interviewed, one brother says, "You know, hope is not what interests journalists."

As near-tireless physician Brother Luke, sublime veteran Michael Lonsdale is about the coolest monk who ever lived. When a young woman asks him if he's ever been in love, he replies that he certainly has and that the rush of feelings upended his life – but that all that was some 60 years ago before he committed to a higher love. Luke's sense of purpose and his numinous contentment are inspiring.

Beauvois has found cinematic ways to convey the collective power of belief and the manifestation of all-encompassing love. The movie convention of two lovers running toward each other in slow motion (before it became hackneyed by overuse) here takes the form of the monks drinking wine together, their faces radiant with joy and, later, sorrow, as – of all things – 'Swan Lake' plays. Nearly 120 years after it was first performed, the melancholy depth of expression in the Russian composer's ballet seems tailor-made for a humble gathering of monks in a mountain village in Algeria in 1996. Now that’s art. Tchaikovsky's ballet music goes up against terrorism with a warped Islamic bent and – at least for the length of this incredibly moving scene – ballet "wins." Brother Christian's glasses even fog up – a detail I'm not sure I've ever seen in a film.

The monastic life as shown here makes room for contemplation, Gregorian chants and crucial engagement in the outside world. (As an aside, in the thick of a grueling film festival such as Cannes, one is exposed to the work of directors one can only wish would seclude themselves far away from a camera in order to contemplate whether their latest inspiration constitutes a story worth telling.)

This was the only film in Competition at Cannes with a 'monastic life consultant' listed in the opening credits, although the Hungarian film Tender Son – The Frankenstein Project was, according to the closing credits, 'blessed by Rabbi Darvas.'

I wonder what the wording is for a blessing over a film? May I suggest: 'Oh, Higher Power, who made possible persistence of vision and the wonderful entertainments that have flowed from the meeting of light and celluloid, electricity and pixel, bless this film and all those who sit through it. Make this venture not a waste of time. Imbue it with truth and beauty or, failing that, telling details that reward the viewer. Let those who come to commune in the dark leave the theatre with a feeling of kinship in their hearts, grateful for having chosen this film and not another from the bountiful choice in this, the entertainment firmament. Amen.'