Agony and the Ecstasy, The (1965) Movie Script
The Dome of St. Peter's, a triumph
of engineering, marvel of design.
Created during the italian Renaissance
by a man named Michelangelo.
And even today,
in this time of scientific miracles...
a source of wonder.
A focus of admiration
for those who, this past year...
gathered in Rome
from all over the world...
to commemorate the four-hundredth
anniversary of its designer's death.
And in the Vatican close by,
the Sistine Chapel:
stronghold of the most celebrated
frescoes in the history of painting.
The work of an artist who
did not want to paint.
Michelangelo was born in 1475...
in the Tuscan village of Caprese,
where his father was the Mayor.
There had been soldiers in the
Buonarroti family too...
but never an artist.
Michelangelo burst from his heritage
like an unexpected flame.
Here at Settignano, he studied the
rudiments of sculpture technique.
First the ordinary stone...
then the marble, the "stone of light",
as the Greeks called it...
learning to discover its defects,
to probe its potentialities.
This was the groundwork
for the student.
And his goal: Florence.
Dominated, in the year 1469,
by one man who was a prince...
a poet, a patron of the arts:
Lorenzo, the Magnificent.
New buildings rose,
new statues appeared.
And here, in this new Athens...
the boy Michelangelo
saw how the marble...
that stone that sprang from
the heart of his land...
could reach its potentialities...
could acquire harmony
of volume and form...
in churches...
palaces...
bridges, streets.
Here, too, he learned to draw,
to unleash his talent in painting.
Muscular masses, figures,
standing out from the folios...
with all the substance of statues.
No wonder he felt his destiny:
born to sculpt, not to paint.
His first work, a bas-relief,
the "Madonna of the Stairs".
He was only fifteen.
Yet under his hands,
marble lost its hardness...
became soft as wax,
translucent as alabaster.
Mary, the mother of Christ,
the "Giver of Life...
and the Custodian of Death".
At seventeen, he created
the "Battle of The Centaurs".
Limbs, muscles...
carved with a force and energy
stirring as a rebellion.
A joyous satyr,
in reality the devil...
in the act of tempting an
intoxicated Adam...
otherwise known
as the "Bacchus".
A work commissioned
by a banker of Rome...
for by now the fame of
Michelangelo had spread...
beyond the walls of Florence.
The "Apollus".
For the Dominicans of Santo Spiritu,
"The Crucifix"...
a treasure of art only
recently discovered.
The renowned "Pitti Madonna".
And the significant "St. Matthew".
Significant for that
"unfinished appearance...
which recurs in other
of the master's creations.
As here, he now and again
would stop short...
lest further refinements
would compromise...
the "life", the real essence
of the work.
The Medici Tombs...
even the architecture
designed by Michelangelo.
A setting for his
Tomb of Lorenzo...
with its figures of Dusk...
and Dawn.
The Tomb of Giuliano and
its companion works:
Night and Day.
Night in her gloom...
with the owl...
and the mask, symbols of the
dreams and terrors of darkness.
Day, that "unfinished mark again,
roughly hewn...
like first vague light of dawn.
The genius of "Victory",
said to be tribute to Lorenzo...
Michelangelo's second father...
who had banished the
shadows of barbarism.
The "Medici Madonna".
The "Pieta" of the Duomo,
in Florence.
The "Pieta" of Palestrina.
But a work more widely
known than these...
came from one gigantic
block of marble...
earlier rejected by other artists
who had palled before it.
In eighteen months,
Michelangelo had transformed it to...
"The Giant of Florence":
"David".
No longer the meek shepherd,
David is shown...
at the moment of
his decision to fight.
And there is that other colossus...
originally intended
for the funeral monument...
of Pope Julius, the second...
described by a biographer as
"a better warrior than a Pope".
The "Moses".
So lifelike, says the legend...
that Michelangelo struck
its knee with a hammer...
crying: "And now, speak!"
Here, that glory of the
sculptor's art...
the famed "Pieta" of St. Peters...
now on exhibition at
the New York World's Fair.
Created by Michelangelo
when he was 23.
Finished, polished,
no detail untouched.
In striking contrast
to this "Pieta"...
known as the Rondanini and
considered the artist's testament.
At long intervals, for the last
eleven years of his life...
and up to the day of his death,
he worked on it.
Here Michelangelo is no longer
searching for beauty...
but the most profound sign
of suffering in man.
From the perfection of
the Piet of St. Peter's...
to this final achievement
with its unfinished stamp...
the arc of his life is spanned:
the agony of creation has
finally forced him...
to define the indefinable.
On the 18th of February, 1564...
not far from this square,
the Campidoglio...
which he had designed...
Michelangelo died at the age of 89.
Acclaimed by the world for
his titanic figures in marble...
yet still best known for his
frescoes on the ceiling...
of a chapel in the Vatican,
the Sistine Chapel...
the masterpiece of a sculpture...
who did not want to paint.
The Pope!
Your Holiness, a great victory.
A great day for Rome.
For the church.
In the name of the Holy Church,
I thank you.
May God Almighty bless you.
The Father, the Son...
and the Holy Ghost. Amen.
Return to Rome!
Bramante.
Let's go and see.
Still at work? The Pope has
already entered the city.
- I've got work to do.
- Surely nothing so important...
...as to do your pontiff honor.
- Do him honor?
His Holiness's orders were clear:
all Rome to take a holiday...
and come to St. Peter's to
celebrate his new triumph.
Yes, and what is all Rome doing?
Eating, drinking,
working, making love?
Rome is not interested
in petty conquerors.
Besides, I do his Holiness honor.
This tomb will make
him famous forever.
Then I fear he'll achieve
no fame in this century.
Not at your rate of work.
Do you know a sculptor that can
cut marble faster than I can?
How many sculptures do
you plan for this tomb?
Forty.
You know that.
And it took you how long to
carve the David in Florence?
- Four years.
- Four times forty is...?
I know, Bramante, I know,
a hundred and sixty.
That's why I can't
afford holidays.
Wait now!
Look. Moses.
Moses?
Moses.
Here in the marble.
Moses down from Sinai.
God's anger in his eyes.
- In the mind of Michelangelo.
- No! Here! Alive!
Sleeping inside the stone.
God sets them in there.
The sculptor only cuts them loose.
- Slow down!
- And, uh, the architect?
I like your plan for St. Peter's.
I told you that.
- Thank you.
- Your new cathedral...
will make a fine
setting for the tomb.
Imagine it, Bramante. Right there,
in the center of the nave...
...directly under the dome.
- The first church in Christendom.
The most important building
since the Acropolis.
The true house of God
and center of our faith...
a setting for your
sculpture group?
- I think Michelangelo means that.
- It's quite clear what he means.
You should carve your own
self-portrait, master Buonarroti...
as the spirit of modesty.
Perhaps it sleeps in one
of these marbles.
It's not well to goad, Bramante.
It's well to remember he's not
only the Pope's architect...
but his adviser and confidant
on all the arts.
I don't beg for the Pope's favors.
He needs me as much as I need him.
He gives me work,
I give him monuments.
Both our ambitions are satisfied.
Hold fast!
Where are all the people?
You may tell your master,
the King of France...
that I have looked up the Cardinal
Clermont in Sant'Angelo...
because he is no
better than a spy.
I know where the loyalty
of you French cardinals lie!
You belong with you King,
not with your church.
Don't tempt me to provide
you both with similar lodgings.
My master will be
deeply distressed...
when I report Your Holiness's
words to him.
Remind your master
that I am at war...
and I will remain at war until
I have recovered the Papal States...
for the Church!
Every city, every village,
every foot of ground.
And I will stand no interference
from your master, or anyone else.
The King of France wishes
Your Holiness every success...
...in your enterprise.
- Yes, and spies on me...
in my own court, stirs up my
enemies throughout Italy...
and even boasts in private
that he will put a Frenchman...
on the throne of Peter and before
long make me his chaplain!
But His Majesty entertains nothing
but veneration for Your Holiness.
His Majesty called
me anti-Christ...
that only a stick on my back
would keep me in order.
Let him learn that
I too carry a stick.
Let him learn that I am the Pope!
The audience is over.
Buonarroti.
I am glad, my son, to see you
here in Rome and at work...
even though I had declared a holiday.
I commend such zeal.
I recall the last time I gave
you a commission...
you ran from me as though
I had the pox.
And Your Holiness will
also recall the reason.
When I applied for payment,
you had me driven from this palace...
...as though I had the pox.
- Silence!
You will speak only when
I give you permission!
And then you will
not speak of money!
During my campaign
in the Romagna...
I found time to do some reading.
I didn't know you
were a poet, Buonarroti.
"On Rome in the Pontificate
of Julius, the Second.
A Sonnet."
"Here helms and swords
are made of chalices:
the blood of Christ is
sold so much the quart."
Recognize those words?
Or these?
"He who wears the Papal crown,
is my Medusa still."
I have been compared to Lucifer...
Beelzebub, the Anti-Christ,
but never before Medusa!
This presumptuous Florentine
should be handed over...
to the hangman of Sant'Angelo.
This presumptuous Florentine
has been described...
as the master artist
of the world.
Certainly a better artist
than he is a poet.
Well?
Are you dumb?
I was waiting Your Holiness's
permission to speak.
You have it!
I was angry when I wrote that.
It was...
when you hadn't
paid me for the...
Also, you have been as free
with your tongue as your pen!
You have called me a conqueror.
A free booter!
When I modelled you in Bologna,
you told me yourself...
to put a sword in your hand.
And if I had not taken the sword...
if I had not become a conqueror...
there would be no Church,
no pontiff...
no hope of peace for mankind.
And, I may add,
no patron of architecture...
sculpture and painting and therefore
no comfortable living for artists.
I don't ask for comforts,
Holiness. Only work.
Good. I have work for you.
I have already begun it.
The tomb that is to
make me famous?
Do you really believe that?
That I hunger for personal fame?
You have always misunderstood me,
Buonarroti.
I am not the Borgia.
I seek honor for the Church,
not for myself.
And I will use art as I use the sword,
for the glory of the Faith.
I will build a new St. Peter's which
will become the first church...
in Christendom, the true house of
God and the center of our faith.
That much is clearly my duty...
even though Bramante may bankrupt
me before he is finished.
How many men are at
work on the foundations?
- Two thousand, Holiness.
- Two thousand.
I could have used such an army
in the siege of Bologna.
But the tomb.
The tomb.
What purpose is served
by the tomb?
Is my new cathedral to be nothing
but a setting for a sculpture group?
And in the center of the nave,
under the dome?
Do I not run the risk of
seeming vainglorious...
when all men know that
I am humble and meek?
Yes, meek. Besides, Buonarroti,
by my calculation...
you could not complete the work in
less than a hundred and sixty years.
And there's the cost.
If I allowed you to continue...
I should become
doubly bankrupt.
No, we will forget about my tomb.
For the time being, at least.
Do I have Your Holiness's
permission to return to Florence?
No. I told you I had work
for you! Come!
This chapel is very
dear to my heart.
As you know, it was built
by my uncle, Pope Sixtus.
That is why it is
called the Sistine.
What is your opinion
of the architecture?
Now the truth, Buonarroti.
The architecture? It has no more
architecture than a cow barn.
Bramante agrees with you.
In this, if nothing else.
And do you think it's proper for
your pontiff to conduct Mass...
in a barn fit only
for stabling cattle?
I am no judge of what's
proper for a pontiff.
Why this sudden modesty,
Buonarroti?
Then we agree that something
must be done.
Bramante wants to pull it
down and build a new chapel.
Bramante is very fond
of pulling things down.
But I have a better solution.
Better, less destructive...
and cheaper.
My son, I have decided to honor you
above all the painting master of Italy.
Painting masters?
You will correct the clumsiness,
of my uncle's architects.
Your commission is
to decorate the ceiling.
But your Holy Father,
I am a sculptor, not a painter!
Buonarroti! This new modesty
of yours is becoming a disease.
Did you not study the art
of fresco painting...
...under the great Ghirlandaio?
- Yes!
Did you not paint a Holy Family
for an obscure Florentine banker?
- That was just a diversion. This...
- And was not your fresco judged...
superior even to the panel
of Leonardo da Vinci?
- Florence is my city, Holiness!
- And I am your pontiff, Buonarroti!
Would you refuse me what you
did not refuse the bankers...
...and politicians of Florence?
- But...
Can it be that you are afraid?
Do you doubt your ability
to complete such a task?
I am not afraid, Holiness!
But...
But?
- Nothing, Holy Father.
- Very well.
You will paint the
Twelve Apostles on the ceiling...
and decorate the vault
with appropriate designs.
For this, you will be paid three...
er... two thousand ducats...
less the rent of the house
I will provide for you.
Michelangelo, please,
come and join our party.
I'm not dressed for such
a gathering, Your Eminence.
Here, read that.
But this is madness!
You, an architect for
the Sultan of Turkey?
The Sultan's ducats are
as good as the Pope's.
Better. He's ready
to pay in advance.
Besides, to throw a bridge
across the Golden Horn...
...there's a challenge.
- To an engineer, to Bramante...
...even to Leonardo, not Michelangelo.
- Why not Michelangelo?
Better a good bridge
than a bad fresco.
- Tessina, he's going to Turkey.
- When do you leave?
Now. Tonight.
I take ship at Naples
for Constantinople.
I couldn't leave without paying
my respects to you and your brother.
And to your husband, of course.
Piero's in Spain on an
embassy for the Pope.
So... this is farewell.
- Farewell?
- She's right.
You can't return to Italy.
Not while Julius lives.
It will make difficulties for me,
for the family.
Because an artist refuses
a commission?
Why not? In Florence, where
my father recognized your work...
you became a Medici artist.
Therefore I am, to some extent,
your sponsor here.
Julius is at war,
suspicious of everyone...
especially the Florentines.
These days, we all walk on
the sharp edge of a sword.
I could stop you.
Inform him of your intentions.
As a cardinal,
perhaps it's my duty.
Will you?
And let him stretch that stiff
neck of yours at the end of a rope?
No.
I can't forget that my father
looked on you as another son.
Tessina, tell him he's mad.
Maybe he'll listen to you.
Why waste words if
he's made up his mind?
Well, I am sorry to cause
trouble for your family.
Oh, my brother makes much
too much of the whole affair.
- It's unimportant.
- It's important to me!
I mean, the family will survive.
Artists come and go. So do popes.
The Medici remain.
You understand,
my hand was forced.
Julius wants to destroy me
with this commission.
Destroy me and cast me into hell.
From what I've heard,
perhaps only Purgatory.
Purgatory is for sinners
against God.
And you have sinned against the Pope,
which is a much more important matter.
You shouldn't have written
that sonnet, Michelangelo.
- It was indiscreet, to say the least!
- I know it was indiscreet! But...
why he should have the right to do this
to me? To drown me in paint for it?
That's what really troubles you,
isn't it?
- That Julius should have his way?
- Princes and tyrants...
...shouldn't order the lives of artists.
- You didn't object when my father...
...ordered your life!
- That was different.
He was Lorenzo, the Magnificent!
He was an artist himself!
Besides, he didn't order my life.
He inspired it.
Besides, when he brought
me to live in your house...
You remember, Tessina,
how the world looked then?
All virgin marble ready to take
any shape we wanted.
Not like it is now, when a sculptor
is set painting ceilings...
and a freebooter leads
the Church of God.
I'm sure you'll find Turkey
much more satisfying.
More satisfying than
twelve draped apostles...
and appropriate designs.
On a curved surface,
seventy feet in the air!
I can see how you would be
afraid of such a commission.
I am not afraid of it!
Why do you always twist my words?
It's just that art is not a matter
of appropriate design.
It's not mathematics,
or politics, or even beauty.
It's an idea, an inspiration...
in paint, or bronze, or...
truly most,
most truly in marble!
There's no inspiration
in this ceiling!
So you will throw an inspired
bridge across a Turkish backwater?
Yes! Are you trying
to change my mind?
Well, it had occurred to me that
you were trying to change it.
Why else would you argue
with yourself?
I am not arguing with myself.
I'm asking for your opinion.
- Should you go?
- Yes.
If you feel you must.
The few months it would take you
to paint the ceiling...
would obviously ruin your life.
Exile among the infidels
is much to be preferred.
And I'm sure you'll be very
happy in Constantinople...
as long as you refrain from
writing sonnets to the Sultan.
For then you will drown not in paint,
but in the Bosphorus.
You're laughing at me!
But then you always did.
Not always, Michelangelo.
There was a time when...
there was nothing more important
to me than your laughter.
And you always told me the truth.
Tell me now.
Am I a fool?
You are...
yourself.
I wouldn't change
that even if I could.
Nor your mind.
Not even my father
had that power.
Do as you please, Michelangelo.
You always have.
I must go.
A pleasant voyage to you.
Oh, and as you know...
the best fresco assistants
are to be found in Florence.
What are you trying to do,
ruin my work?
What is the meaning
of this blasphemy?
- I have come back from Florence...
- Michelangelo is complaining...
One at a time!
I come back from Florence
with my assistants...
to find Bramante has
put up this scaffolding!
- By my orders.
- But what does he intend to do...
with those holes in the ceiling
after the timbers come down?
Leave them, Holy Father. It's the
usual custom. It can't be helped.
And leave my painting
full of holes?
- Well, if can't be helped.
- But it can be helped!
I can design a scaffolding myself
which will never touch the ceiling.
Do you claim to be
an architect, too?
Do you claim to be one,
if that's the best you can do?
Bramante is my architect.
I pay him for it. I pay you to paint.
Have you been trained
as an architect?
- No, Your Holiness.
- You have my permission...
to tear down Bramante's scaffolding
and build your own.
But it must not touch the ceiling
and the painting must be perfect.
Who are these men?
These are my new assistants
from Florence, Holiness.
That is Francisco Granacci. We were
students together under Ghirlandaio.
He is a master of fresco.
Then Master Granacci
is doubly welcome...
since painting is not
Michelangelo's trade.
And herewith, if you want to brawl,
do it in the streets.
Try this.
No, it's still got too
much red in it. Try again.
Enough for today.
Magnificent.
Wine.
Tell me now!
Is it a devil?
No! It's a saint!
See? A saint.
An apostle.
You're wicked.
You shouldn't mock the apostles.
I don't mock them.
They mock me. All twelve of them.
Hey, Nino!
This wine's sour.
My wine sour?
That's a new cask.
- I opened it only ten minutes ago.
- It's too sour.
Do you want your
nose broken again?
I can't drink this swill.
If the wine is sour, throw it out!
If the wine is sour, throw it out!
That is why it is necessary to
support our armies in Bologna...
and show ourselves to the people...
demonstrating we will
not tolerate the enemy...
who wishes to separate the
Papal States of the church...
and destroy us.
- Where is he?
- He has disappeared, Holiness.
I've just come from his house.
His servant knows nothing.
You questioned his assistants,
those Florentines?
Yes, Holiness.
He woke them late last night,
paid them a month's wages.
- They haven't seen him since.
- Search the city!
Search the ships in every port.
Let it be known that I will put
any city or country...
that gives him refuge under
a papal ban.
Florence in particular.
It is a pity this task has proved
too much for Michelangelo.
I would suggest another painter.
Such as Raphael de Santi of Urbino...
...who happens to be...
- Who happens by merest coincidence...
to be in my court today.
I have seen your work.
It shows promise.
You are no Florentine,
another point in your favor.
I'll have a commission for you, when
I return. An important commission.
But not the Ceiling.
Michelangelo will paint the Ceiling!
He will paint it or he will hang!
Game's over. Off to bed.
I'll come up later.
They have turned
the city upside down.
I know. They questioned
the servants this afternoon.
Julius says he'll hang him.
And if he doesn't, I will.
I've been ill all day.
Artists! They're all alike.
Conceited. Ungrateful. Faithless.
Michelangelo's vice
is too much faith.
He hasn't merely destroyed the fresco.
He's humiliated the Pope. Why?
He hated the idea of the fresco,
the lack of an idea.
- So he's gone to Constantinople.
- I don't believe he's gone there.
He... he is a fool.
His conceit is without limit.
But he's not a coward.
He's...
he's a strange man.
My dear sister,
don't let your regard for him...
...make a fool of you.
- My regard?
I'm not blind, Tessina.
You don't keep your secrets
as well as you think.
Whatever Michelangelo is doing,
he has his own reasons.
When Julius finds him, he is finished.
Whatever his reasons.
Have you seen Michelangelo
Buonarroti?
- No. No, I haven't seen him.
- Are you sure?
Of course I'm sure. He wouldn't
come around here, anyway.
Who is it?
- What do you want?
- Michelangelo, the Florentine.
- Is he here?
- Michelangelo?
We are informed that
you once knew him.
Yes, I knew him once, long ago.
When he first came to Bologna.
- He has not been here recently?
- Not for many years.
You are a fool, soldier,
to look for him here.
You can search the whole world,
you will never find Michelangelo...
in a house like this.
Michelangelo here.
Doesn't he ever stop worrying?
No. Not until he finds
what he's looking for.
- Look it!
- Look who's coming!
- Look!
- The Pope's men.
Here they come!
You there!
Have you seen Michelangelo?
Have you seen Michelangelo,
the Florentine?
You know he is here in Carrara.
Any of you?
Get away!
What are you waiting for?
Into the mountains. Go on! Go on!
You there! Above!
Have you seen Michelangelo,
the Florentine?
- Don't understand!
- Stupid peasants.
Come on!
Stop. Wait. Wait.
Let it go! Let it go!
Michelangelo!
Here take this!
Quickly! Hurry up! Hurry up!
Go on!
Follow me. Come on!
So God created man...
in His own image.
In the image of God
He created him.
Male and female.
And God said: "Let the waters
bring forth abundantly...
moving creatures that have life.
And fowl that may
fly above the Earth...
in the open firmament of heaven."
The envoy is returning.
Your Holiness,
the enemy has refused to talk.
Very well. If they want more
bloodshed be it on their heads.
- Prepare to attack.
- Yes, Your Holiness.
Prepare to attack!
Lancers to the westward!
Your Holiness.
- Where did you find him?
- Behind the lines, Your Holiness.
- He was trying to get through. I...
- He dragged me here like a criminal!
- Silence!
- I tell you, I was coming to see you.
- Where were you?
- Carrara, at the quarries.
- Doing what?
- Thinking.
All this time in Carrara, thinking!
I decided that your ideas
for the Sistine are unworthy.
In Carrara, at the quarries,
you've been thinking...
my ideas are unworthy
of your talent!
And of your chapel, Holiness.
I completed one panel.
- Part of another.
- I saw!
- You saw they were poor.
- Not in my judgment!
- Then your judgment is not mine.
- Yours is superior to mine?
- My son?
- In matters of art, yes, Holy Father.
The wine was sour.
I threw it out.
Let me show Your Holiness.
Holiness, the enemy
has found our range.
Will you give the order
to open fire?
- What is this?
- The Sacrifice of Noah.
- And this is the Flood.
- Yes.
And this?
That's the Expulsion from the
the Garden of Eden, the...
the Creation of Adam,
the Sun and the Moon.
Genesis.
Covering the entire ceiling, not
just the side panels as you planned.
You see, this is my plan
for the whole work.
Now, spacing the central panels
will be the...
pagan Sibyls and the Hebrew Prophets
who foresaw the coming of Christ.
- And below, the ancestors of Christ.
- And appropriate designs.
No. No appropriate designs.
I am not a decorator, Holiness.
With your permission, I'll cover
the entire vault with glory.
Your Holiness,
the men are in position to attack.
We must move now.
- How much time?
- Several months. Perhaps a year.
- There's five times as much work.
- And cost I suppose?
It won't be cheap.
Well, I'm in a mood to be
generous, Buonarroti.
I will double your grant.
Four thousand ducats.
- For five times the work?
- It's all I can afford!
It costs me more to paint a ceiling
than lay siege to a city!
I should have at least ten
thousand, Holiness.
- I'll give you five.
- Eight.
Six! Six thousand ducats.
My last word.
Would you bargain
with your pontiff?
- As you wish, Holy Father.
- Six thousand ducats then.
Less the rent of your house,
of course.
You will recall your assistants
from Florence?
No. I'll work alone.
It's the only way.
- And you will complete the work.
- I will complete it.
- Are you sure you can?
- I am sure.
Even though painting
is not your trade?
- I will make it my trade.
- Good.
To work, my son.
Give him an escort to Rome!
Your own Swiss Guards.
- I want him there alive.
- Very good, Your Holiness.
You see, I couldn't give you
something mediocre.
- Even if it's all you asked for.
- It's not what your Holiness planned.
No. I planned a ceiling.
He plans a miracle.
What are you waiting for? Attack!
Attack!
Open fire!
Come on.
- Master.
- What is it?
From the Vatican treasury.
It's my pay. At last.
It's a bill!
Two months' rent!
His Holiness sent me a bill
for two months' rent!
He hasn't even paid me for
six months! Six months!
When will you make an end?
When I am finished.
When will you make an end?
When I am finished.
I am sorry, Tessina.
I am truly sorry.
Why be sorry?
It was a great success!
I spent a delightful evening making
conversation with an empty chair.
- Slipped my mind, that.
- Three hundred guests.
It's taken me six months to collect
artists from France and Spain.
Scholars from Germany
and England.
All anxious to meet
the great Michelangelo.
I forgot!
I was working and I forgot!
I suppose I should
apologize to your brother.
Why? Why should anyone expect
the slightest courtesy from you.
Now I understand my brother,
Bramante, the Pope, all of them.
The reason that you have no
friends is that you are impossible!
And it's my misfortune
to love the impossible.
Tessina, if I ever loved,
it would be you.
Nothing's changed really.
- Except you're married.
- I submitted to a ceremony.
And to an embrace?
The contract called for children.
I'll never understand
the ways of nobility.
We're not noble,
we're solid merchant stock...
with old-fashioned ideas.
Once we love, it's forever.
- Is it another woman?
- No.
And...
it's not that either.
In Florence,
years ago I loved you.
I loved you.
But now there's...
there's no room in me for love.
Maybe there never was.
I wondered about that.
In Bologna there was a woman,
a courtesan.
Beautiful. I was attracted to her,
made love to her...
even wrote a sonnet to her.
It was a poor thing.
The words meant nothing,
because she meant nothing.
Less than nothing.
It left me empty.
After that I prayed...
prayed for understanding.
Maybe God crippled me...
with a purpose as he does often.
The bird's weak.
He gives it wings. The deer's
helpless. He made it swift.
He made Homer blind. And let
him see the world more clearly...
than any other man.
He gave me the power to create...
to fashion my own kind...
only here...
in these.
To other men He gives warm houses,
women and children, laughter.
- To me He gives...
- A house without love?
- No.
- A monastery?
No, filled with love
but of a different kind.
You don't believe
what I'm telling you.
I believe you think that
what you say is true.
I believe that you're lonely...
that you have made a
monastery of your work.
And this and your loneliness have
made things seem true...
which are not true.
They are.
You loved me once?
The patience of our family
is a proverb in Florence.
Obscenity!
And this has taken
the man two years...
and so it will cost a fortune
to complete it.
Why, this is profligate,
just profligate!
- You're right. It's a delusion!
- Obscenity! In the sight of God!
In the House of His Glory!
Obscenity! Shameful!
Shameful and obscene!
This artist takes...
his inspiration from the Greeks
who glorified the naked body.
He has turned Your Holiness's
own chapel into a pagan temple.
No, no, no!
Forgive me, Cardinal!
Rather his fault lies in having
strayed too far from the Greeks.
These twisted masses of flesh!
These tortured muscles!
Surely no Greek would have
painted so Barbarcus!
Well, Buonarroti,
what have you to say?
- Nothing.
- Nothing?
Then I should heed these critics
and order the panels repainted?
The Book of Genesis describes
Noah as being uncovered.
Am I to improve on Holy Writ
and put breeches on him.
You profane Holy Writ. The naked
body is not a fit subject for art.
Then God himself is profane. It was
He who created man in His own image.
Blasphemy!
He created man with pride,
not shame.
It was left to the priests
to invent shame.
- And now heresy!
- I will paint man as God made him!
In the glory of his nakedness!
But, may I suggest,
in the manner of the Greeks.
No, in my own manner!
True, no modern artist can
hope to equal the Greeks!
Why not? Why shouldn't we equal
them? Surpass them, if we can.
Really, Master Buonarroti,
I had heard you lacked modesty...
but do you claim to be
greater then the Greeks?
- I claim to be different.
- For the sake of difference?
Because I am different.
I'm a Florentine and a Christian...
painting in this century. They were
Greeks and pagans living in theirs.
Pagans? Christians? An artist
should be above such distinction.
And a cardinal, especially one who
pretends to understand art...
should be above such foolishness.
I'll tell you what stands
between us and the Greeks.
Two thousand years of human
suffering stands between us!
Christ on His Cross
stands between us.
And this difference is what
I will express in my paintings.
Just as I'll paint the truth
in spite of all the bigots...
and hypocrites in Rome!
Why do you bring fools
to judge my work?
Enough!
We have heard from piety
and learning.
And both are wrong.
The panels will not be changed.
But Buonarroti,
where will you learn respect?
When you mock my Cardinals,
you mock me, you mock the Church!
Why should I suffer your
insolence any longer?
Holiness...
...the ceiling.
- The ceiling!
Does that forgive
you everything?
This endless ceiling.
This purgatory of a ceiling.
When will you make and end of it?
When... when...
When you are finished!
When you are finished!
The only answer you have given me.
But you are not the
only artist in Rome!
No, lay more surface.
Then go home.
I'll work tonight.
Michelangelo.
Michelangelo!
He has not spoken
since we found him.
- Are there any bones broken?
- No, my lady.
We have examined him carefully.
What are you doing with the knife?
Why, we propose to bleed him,
my lady...
to release the evil humors.
Ah! You are the Pope's physicians,
are you not?
Why yes, my lady.
Ah, this man is indeed fortunate
to be in your care.
Your skills are admired
even in Florence.
- In Florence, truly?
- Truly.
Of course, in Florence...
we no longer bleed.
Rather we follow the methods of the...
of the Moorish healers, with which
I am sure you are both familiar.
But of course, my lady.
I am very grateful for all
you've done.
I shall commend you both
to His Holiness.
Oh but, my lady,
we have been instructed to...
I shall call you if you are
needed any further.
Good day, gentlemen.
Thank you.
It's no wonder, my lady. For a week
he's hardly eaten or slept.
I know. I've seen him in
one of his working fevers.
Here.
Get some water, will you?
And you'll make some broth?
Michelangelo.
Who is it?
Can't you see me?
Yes, I can see you.
I dreamt I was blind.
I couldn't...
No!
I was blind!
Help me get these
filthy clothes off him.
You, who preach the beauty and
nobility of the human body.
Look what you have done to yours!
Do you know, Michelangelo...
you smell!
As Your Holiness instructed,
I called on Michelangelo.
He's still very weak.
The Lady Countessina permitted
me only a few words with him.
- She is there? In his house?
- Every day, Holiness.
She refuses to admit
your physicians.
It'll be some time before he is
able to climb the scaffolding again.
- Well, how long? A month? A year?
- I fear never.
You don't fear, Bramante. You hope.
The ceiling will be finished.
Holiness, with your permission,
there's something...
I would like to show you. Please.
I see that you've been to the
Sistine Chapel, Master Raphael.
Yes, Your Holiness.
Remarkable.
Quite remarkable.
I congratulate you.
Don't you think today would be
a good day to try your new stick?
Finished?
And they say that Raphael
can draw with your strength.
But you can't draw
with his grace.
- Who says that.
- Should know your enemies by now.
Will this be Adam?
No, just a decoration.
I wish you'd leave my worktable
alone. I can never find anything.
A decoration?
I needed some figures to space
the main panels.
And the female figures?
There won't be any.
Why should there be?
God made man in His image.
Woman He made from a rib.
No wonder you have such a
reputation for gallantry Michelangelo.
And this?
Oh, it'll never be painted.
Why should I?
Why should I drag myself
up those scaffolds again?
How many more weeks? Months?
On a commission I never wanted?
While he lurks below,
spying on me?
"When will you make an end?
When will you make an end?"
Well, I have made an end.
Even if I had the
strength to go on.
I don't have the will.
Ah, the Lady Ridolfi de' Medici.
Our beloved daughter...
who took it upon herself
to dismiss our physicians.
No, no, no!
You will not rise.
You are not well.
Your Holiness does me honor.
I come to make amends
to you, my son.
A little penance
I had given myself.
I have treated you harshly,
and helped bring you to this...
sorry state. I admit
my responsibility. And regret it.
Yes, Holy Father.
But now your trials are at an end.
I bring you glad news.
I relieve you of your commission.
You are free.
You will continue to receive
full payment, of course.
- I haven't received any payment.
- Full payment, I say...
until you have recovered
your health.
When you can return to Florence,
free of all obligations, all cares.
But, Holy Father,
what about the ceiling?
Yes, the ceiling.
I have considered other
arrangements about the ceiling.
- Your health is more important to me.
- What other arrangements?
I have been considering your young
colleague, Raphael.
Raphael?
Paint my ceiling?
Your ceiling, did you say?
It is only yours as long
as you work on it.
Otherwise, it is mine.
Mine! Is that clear?
But you promised me.
You can call yours only what
I choose to bestow on you.
If I give you the ceiling,
it is yours.
- Lf I give it to Raphael, it is his.
- Oh, no, Holiness. I can't.
I wish you good health
and good fortune.
Your Holiness, you can't mean it.
You'll destroy him.
I don't have to tell the daughter of
Lorenzo that an artist is destroyed...
only when he is
kept from his work.
But I haven't kept him
from his work.
I have merely saved his life.
I dismissed your bungling
physicians because they certainly...
would have killed him.
I fed him, nursed him.
Yes, and catered to
his weaknesses. Why?
To make a plaything
for a noble woman?
What Your Holiness suggests
does us both dishonor.
I don't deny.
I have a certain love for him.
But he's been desperately ill.
Believe me, his health has
been my only concern.
I should get him well soon.
The cure for Michelangelo's illness
is not love...
but work.
Then, then you're not thinking
of Raphael?
I am thinking of
the Sistine ceiling.
Nothing else.
If you send him back to work too
soon, he'll paint in his own blood.
What runs in Michelangelo's
veins is not blood but paint.
In time you will discover
that for yourself.
Goodnight, my daughter.
I think we can safely say that
Buonarroti will be back...
...on the ceiling within the week.
- Holiness, I thought you said.
These were for my tomb?
And I've paid for them?
Yes, Holiness.
Perhaps we were a little hasty
in abandoning the tomb.
Costly, yes, in money and time,
vainglorious perhaps...
but a fitting monument, after all.
Just the thing for the nave
of St. Peter's in the center.
Under the dome.
- Why this graveyard face?
- The news is grave, Holiness.
The French have invaded Lombardy.
The Germans are at the Brenner Pass.
Ferrara and Bologna have joined
the alliance against Your Holiness.
Milan is besieged.
Nothing stands between your enemies
and Rome itself, Your Holiness.
Nothing but the few troops
that I am gathering here.
- No word from Spain?
- No, Holiness.
How soon can your mercenaries
be made ready to march?
Holiness, they're tearing
down the scaffolding.
Silence!
How dare you interrupt me?
- But, Your Holiness.
- Wait!
You will have your answer.
Now wait!
- When can you march?
- Retreat from Rome?
- I should think we.
- I said March.
Forward! Against the Germans
and the French?
At once, Holiness.
But it is my duty to tell you that
you should either retreat...
or negotiate.
As Pope I can do neither
and remain Pope.
I will attack because I must.
We leave today and join our troops.
Yes, Holiness.
You wonder why I ordered the
scaffolding to be taken down.
I suppose I should
have consulted you.
I have much on my mind.
Is my commission at an end?
Of course not.
Is that what you thought?
What else was I to think?
No, no, no. I just wanted people
to see what had been done.
But my work... is... not finished.
The Creation of Adam,
the heart of the fresco...
the Sun and the Moon.
Buonarroti! How many times
have I asked you...
when you will make an end?
And what has your answer been?
"When I am finished,
when I am finished!"
I can wait no longer for
the end that will never come.
But show my work unfinished!
I've never done that!
- You will do so now.
- But why? Why?
- Because I order it!
- I will not obey you!
Will not? Did I hear
you correctly? Will not?
Yes, I'll destroy it first,
with my own hands.
I have suffered your insolence
for the last time.
Your commission is at an end.
You are dismissed.
Michelangelo, the chapel's
been crowded all day.
Master Buonarroti,
you claim not to be a painter...
but you have sent us
all back to school.
But we are wondering when are you
going to decide to finish the work?
Ask yourself that question. The
Pope will want the ceiling finished.
Who else would he choose but you?
You have master my style already.
It is true that I wanted your
commission. I admit it freely.
But today I came
here in good faith.
To tell you of my admiration
for your work.
I don't want to finish your ceiling
now and I doubt if I could.
Perhaps. Still...
I mean it... I...
I hope you will finish the chapel.
I'll never go in it again.
If he should apologize?
- Popes don't apologize.
- Excuse me...
but I think you should
apologize to him.
For being beaten by him,
like a disobedient servant?
Well, what is an artist in
this world but a servant?
A lackey for the
rich and powerful.
Before we even begin to work,
to feed this craving of ours...
we must find a patron.
A rich man of affairs,
or a merchant, or a prince...
or a Pope.
We must bow, fawn, kiss hands.
To be able to do the things
we must do, or die.
We are harlots,
always peddling beauty...
at the doorsteps of the mighty.
If it comes to that,
I won't be an artist.
You'll always be an artist.
You have no choice.
Are you really so blind?
Why do you think he
wanted to show the ceiling?
- Because he was ashamed of it?
- Ashamed?
Of course not. What a stupid thing
to say. He was proud of it!
So he insulted you by showing
it to the world.
- Half-finished.
- Half-finished, yes.
Listen, he rode off in almost
hopeless cause.
Knowing that he might never
live to see the fresco finished.
Are you the only one in Rome
who doesn't know that?
Maybe. I don't pay
attention to these.
Is it a crime that he wants the
world to see it and to share...
in his pride? This fresco that
he's forced you to paint...
come day and night to watch,
defended against its critics...
this work of art which to him
had become a work of love.
- Of love?
- Yes, love!
We always come back to that,
don't we, Michelangelo?
This is one emotion which you
seem unable to comprehend.
Was it love which made him
break his stick across my back?
Love takes us in strange ways.
It's the language of the blood.
It's neither cold nor indifferent.
It's either agony or ecstasy,
sometimes both at once.
Everything you say may be true,
but it, it's come too late.
He's withdrawn the commission.
And can you think of no condition
under which he might restore it?
Even if it means swallowing
that mighty pride of yours?
- Tessina.
- Michelangelo...
make up your mind, once and for all.
Do you want to finish that ceiling?
More than my life.
Then finish it.
What do you want?
Holy Father, I ask you permission
to return to the Sistine...
and finish my work.
You ask something
that I cannot grant.
I can give you permission to return,
but not to complete the fresco.
This you will have to ask of my
enemies who will be in Rome.
In a few weeks. I doubt if they'll
be anxious for you to complete...
the decorations of my chapel.
Well, still I would like to try,
Holiness.
Laudable, Buonarroti, but foolish.
Why waste your talent?
They are come to Rome
as the Vandals came...
to burn and destroy everything
that reminds them of...
one they now call anti-pope
and anti-Christ.
Do you know what they did with the
bronze you made of me in Bologna?
No, Holiness.
Melted down and recast as a
cannon which they named...
the Julia in my honor.
Don't delude yourself they'll
hold your fresco sacred.
I don't think that, Holiness.
Very well.
You have my permission.
You see, my son, how well
we understand each other...
when you don't shout.
Holy Father, I know it's forbidden
to mention the subject but...
but the scaffolding
has to be rebuilt.
And I must have money
to pay for it.
I remember the Sultan paid you
in advance for that bridge...
you never built.
I'll accept that as a personal gift.
All the Sultan's money was returned,
every ducat of it.
- You returned it?
- Yes, Holiness.
A pity you were so generous
with the infidel.
I can give you nothing.
There is one way. I could sell
those marble blocks for your tomb.
They should bring a good price.
I'll try.
We can fall back on Perugia
with Lake Trasimeno to protect flank.
Master de Granacci.
Is a red hat still of any value?
Are there any still willing to
pay me for elevating them...
to the Sacred College?
Your Holiness already plans to
create three new cardinals.
Yes, to feed the troops.
Yes, Holiness.
Well, instead of three, we'll
create four new cardinals.
Three red hats will keep
the army in bread.
A fourth can buy paint
for Michelangelo.
Your Holiness,
do we continue the retreat?
We'll fight wherever we can,
even to the gates of Rome itself.
Master.
Is that truly how you see Him,
my son?
Yes, Holy Father.
Not angry, not vengeful.
But like that, strong,
benign, loving.
He knows anger too.
But the act of creation
is an act of love.
You have what I need in life,
my son...
if you can picture Him like that.
I am grateful for His gift to me.
The most perfect of gifts.
If I had to choose
my life over again.
I would first choose
to be an artist.
What you have painted there,
my son...
is not a portrait of God.
It's a proof of faith.
I hadn't thought that faith
needed proof.
Not if you're a saint,
or an artist.
I am a merely Pope.
I thank you.
The new-made Adam.
And this is how you see man?
Noble, beautiful, unafraid?
How else could I see him?
As he is.
Corrupt and evil.
Hands dripping of blood,
destined for damnation.
Your painting's beautiful,
but false.
I cannot change my conception.
You taught me not to waste my time
trying to change your conceptions.
How did you arrive at this?
My thought. My idea for the
panel was that Man's evil.
He learned from himself,
not from God.
Ah, yes.
I wanted to paint Man as
he was first created.
Innocent.
Still free of sin.
Grateful for the gift of life.
The gift of life.
Recently I have prayed for the
gift of death.
But like most my prayers,
it went unheard.
God sometimes appears to be deaf.
Perhaps I should
have been an artist.
Then He would have listened to me,
as appears to have listened to you.
You make a better priest than
I do, Michelangelo.
Yet I have tried to serve Him
in the only way I know.
If I could not do so as His priest,
I would do so as His soldier.
And even in that I have failed.
Now they will hunt
me out of Rome.
And the kings will pick the
bones of Mother Church.
Then even this they will destroy
because I have failed.
I am sorry for that, my son.
It's a terrible thing to strive
for a lifetime.
And come to the final realization
that you have failed.
- Well?
- The Pope is making a confession.
- This last attack.
- You've heard the news?
Everything we have prayed
for is coming to pass to late.
The Spaniards are marching
north from Naples to our aid.
The Swiss are ready to move
south against Milan.
Even young King Harry of
England has announced.
His support of the Pope.
Too late.
- All too late!
- And when they hear he's stricken?
Our new allies? They'll turn back.
Without a leader...
without Julius,
there is no alliance.
Julius is the alliance,
its heart and soul.
- They will turn back.
- And then?
The French and Germans will
take Rome and elect a new Pope.
Who will be a mere
chaplain to the kings.
It's you and the others that called
him a freebooter, a butcher...
a conqueror.
You've never understood him.
He took up the sword to build
a strong, independent Church.
With power to keep peace
among the ambitious kings.
This was the heart of his policy.
It's what he lived for...
and what he's dying for.
Gentlemen, we should be
considering our places of exile.
Holy Father.
I have come to take my
leave of Your Holiness.
- Leave?
- Yes, Holiness.
You were right. It's useless
to go on with the ceiling.
I am returning to Florence.
Wait!
You dare!
You dare leave your work
without my permission!
Then I ask permission
of Your Holiness.
It is refused. Do you hear?
It is refused!
You will complete your work!
Why should I?
You haven't completed yours.
Holy Father.
Insolence!
Then why don't you take a
stick to me? You did before.
I will!
And I will give you your choice!
You will return to the Sistine
Chapel or you will go to a dungeon!
My son!
Yes, Holy Father.
What are you doing here?
Have you no other duties?
Did you think I intended to die?
Vultures! Jackals!
Out of my sight! Out of my sight!
Out! Out!
Out!
What can I say?
I think there is more love here
than could ever exist...
between man and woman.
That's what you meant.
Buonarroti!
Something must be done about
that ruined wall, above the altar.
Another fresco, I think.
Yes, a Crucifixion,
or a Last Judgment.
Some noble subject
worthy of your hand.
But, your tomb,
Your Holiness promised me!
Will you always cross me,
Buonarroti?
You promised that after the
ceiling I could carve the tomb!
And now I make a condition
do the promise!
You will carve the tomb after
you have finished the fresco!
As you wish, Holy Father.
No, my son.
I will not hold you to that.
You are right. It is time
to begin work on the tomb.
There is need for it.
Very soon now I shall know...
whether your conception
of God is a true one.
Your Holiness recovered before.
I had not finished my work.
As you were so insolent
enough to point out.
Now it is finished,
and I am content.
And you?
Are you content, my son?
I still say painting
is not my trade.
I will give you my opinion:
I fear I shall be known.
As the Pope that drove
the invaders out of Italy.
But one who forced an unwilling
artist to complete his work.
Which is so much greater
than both of us.
You didn't force me, Holiness.
Your memory is short, Buonarroti.
I reached out my hand to you,
like God do Adam...
and forced you to accept life.
Only your hand had a stick in it.
Ah, I grant you that.
But Adam was not so stubborn...
not so unwilling to live as you.
You know, Buonarroti,
I almost let you off twice?
I was sorry for you.
Are you glad not that I did not?
I am grateful.
Save your gratitude for one
who deserves it.
No, no, not I.
I take no credit.
I was moved by another hand...
as easily and skillfully
as you move your brush.
Strange how He works His will.
Let us share pride in having been
made His instruments.
It's only painted plaster,
Holy Father.
No, my son.
It is more than that.
Much more.
What has it taught you,
Michelangelo?
That I am not alone.
And it has taught me
that the world is not alone.
When I stand before the Throne.
I shall throw your ceiling into
the balance against my sins.
Perhaps it will shorten
my time in Purgatory.
To work, my son.
of engineering, marvel of design.
Created during the italian Renaissance
by a man named Michelangelo.
And even today,
in this time of scientific miracles...
a source of wonder.
A focus of admiration
for those who, this past year...
gathered in Rome
from all over the world...
to commemorate the four-hundredth
anniversary of its designer's death.
And in the Vatican close by,
the Sistine Chapel:
stronghold of the most celebrated
frescoes in the history of painting.
The work of an artist who
did not want to paint.
Michelangelo was born in 1475...
in the Tuscan village of Caprese,
where his father was the Mayor.
There had been soldiers in the
Buonarroti family too...
but never an artist.
Michelangelo burst from his heritage
like an unexpected flame.
Here at Settignano, he studied the
rudiments of sculpture technique.
First the ordinary stone...
then the marble, the "stone of light",
as the Greeks called it...
learning to discover its defects,
to probe its potentialities.
This was the groundwork
for the student.
And his goal: Florence.
Dominated, in the year 1469,
by one man who was a prince...
a poet, a patron of the arts:
Lorenzo, the Magnificent.
New buildings rose,
new statues appeared.
And here, in this new Athens...
the boy Michelangelo
saw how the marble...
that stone that sprang from
the heart of his land...
could reach its potentialities...
could acquire harmony
of volume and form...
in churches...
palaces...
bridges, streets.
Here, too, he learned to draw,
to unleash his talent in painting.
Muscular masses, figures,
standing out from the folios...
with all the substance of statues.
No wonder he felt his destiny:
born to sculpt, not to paint.
His first work, a bas-relief,
the "Madonna of the Stairs".
He was only fifteen.
Yet under his hands,
marble lost its hardness...
became soft as wax,
translucent as alabaster.
Mary, the mother of Christ,
the "Giver of Life...
and the Custodian of Death".
At seventeen, he created
the "Battle of The Centaurs".
Limbs, muscles...
carved with a force and energy
stirring as a rebellion.
A joyous satyr,
in reality the devil...
in the act of tempting an
intoxicated Adam...
otherwise known
as the "Bacchus".
A work commissioned
by a banker of Rome...
for by now the fame of
Michelangelo had spread...
beyond the walls of Florence.
The "Apollus".
For the Dominicans of Santo Spiritu,
"The Crucifix"...
a treasure of art only
recently discovered.
The renowned "Pitti Madonna".
And the significant "St. Matthew".
Significant for that
"unfinished appearance...
which recurs in other
of the master's creations.
As here, he now and again
would stop short...
lest further refinements
would compromise...
the "life", the real essence
of the work.
The Medici Tombs...
even the architecture
designed by Michelangelo.
A setting for his
Tomb of Lorenzo...
with its figures of Dusk...
and Dawn.
The Tomb of Giuliano and
its companion works:
Night and Day.
Night in her gloom...
with the owl...
and the mask, symbols of the
dreams and terrors of darkness.
Day, that "unfinished mark again,
roughly hewn...
like first vague light of dawn.
The genius of "Victory",
said to be tribute to Lorenzo...
Michelangelo's second father...
who had banished the
shadows of barbarism.
The "Medici Madonna".
The "Pieta" of the Duomo,
in Florence.
The "Pieta" of Palestrina.
But a work more widely
known than these...
came from one gigantic
block of marble...
earlier rejected by other artists
who had palled before it.
In eighteen months,
Michelangelo had transformed it to...
"The Giant of Florence":
"David".
No longer the meek shepherd,
David is shown...
at the moment of
his decision to fight.
And there is that other colossus...
originally intended
for the funeral monument...
of Pope Julius, the second...
described by a biographer as
"a better warrior than a Pope".
The "Moses".
So lifelike, says the legend...
that Michelangelo struck
its knee with a hammer...
crying: "And now, speak!"
Here, that glory of the
sculptor's art...
the famed "Pieta" of St. Peters...
now on exhibition at
the New York World's Fair.
Created by Michelangelo
when he was 23.
Finished, polished,
no detail untouched.
In striking contrast
to this "Pieta"...
known as the Rondanini and
considered the artist's testament.
At long intervals, for the last
eleven years of his life...
and up to the day of his death,
he worked on it.
Here Michelangelo is no longer
searching for beauty...
but the most profound sign
of suffering in man.
From the perfection of
the Piet of St. Peter's...
to this final achievement
with its unfinished stamp...
the arc of his life is spanned:
the agony of creation has
finally forced him...
to define the indefinable.
On the 18th of February, 1564...
not far from this square,
the Campidoglio...
which he had designed...
Michelangelo died at the age of 89.
Acclaimed by the world for
his titanic figures in marble...
yet still best known for his
frescoes on the ceiling...
of a chapel in the Vatican,
the Sistine Chapel...
the masterpiece of a sculpture...
who did not want to paint.
The Pope!
Your Holiness, a great victory.
A great day for Rome.
For the church.
In the name of the Holy Church,
I thank you.
May God Almighty bless you.
The Father, the Son...
and the Holy Ghost. Amen.
Return to Rome!
Bramante.
Let's go and see.
Still at work? The Pope has
already entered the city.
- I've got work to do.
- Surely nothing so important...
...as to do your pontiff honor.
- Do him honor?
His Holiness's orders were clear:
all Rome to take a holiday...
and come to St. Peter's to
celebrate his new triumph.
Yes, and what is all Rome doing?
Eating, drinking,
working, making love?
Rome is not interested
in petty conquerors.
Besides, I do his Holiness honor.
This tomb will make
him famous forever.
Then I fear he'll achieve
no fame in this century.
Not at your rate of work.
Do you know a sculptor that can
cut marble faster than I can?
How many sculptures do
you plan for this tomb?
Forty.
You know that.
And it took you how long to
carve the David in Florence?
- Four years.
- Four times forty is...?
I know, Bramante, I know,
a hundred and sixty.
That's why I can't
afford holidays.
Wait now!
Look. Moses.
Moses?
Moses.
Here in the marble.
Moses down from Sinai.
God's anger in his eyes.
- In the mind of Michelangelo.
- No! Here! Alive!
Sleeping inside the stone.
God sets them in there.
The sculptor only cuts them loose.
- Slow down!
- And, uh, the architect?
I like your plan for St. Peter's.
I told you that.
- Thank you.
- Your new cathedral...
will make a fine
setting for the tomb.
Imagine it, Bramante. Right there,
in the center of the nave...
...directly under the dome.
- The first church in Christendom.
The most important building
since the Acropolis.
The true house of God
and center of our faith...
a setting for your
sculpture group?
- I think Michelangelo means that.
- It's quite clear what he means.
You should carve your own
self-portrait, master Buonarroti...
as the spirit of modesty.
Perhaps it sleeps in one
of these marbles.
It's not well to goad, Bramante.
It's well to remember he's not
only the Pope's architect...
but his adviser and confidant
on all the arts.
I don't beg for the Pope's favors.
He needs me as much as I need him.
He gives me work,
I give him monuments.
Both our ambitions are satisfied.
Hold fast!
Where are all the people?
You may tell your master,
the King of France...
that I have looked up the Cardinal
Clermont in Sant'Angelo...
because he is no
better than a spy.
I know where the loyalty
of you French cardinals lie!
You belong with you King,
not with your church.
Don't tempt me to provide
you both with similar lodgings.
My master will be
deeply distressed...
when I report Your Holiness's
words to him.
Remind your master
that I am at war...
and I will remain at war until
I have recovered the Papal States...
for the Church!
Every city, every village,
every foot of ground.
And I will stand no interference
from your master, or anyone else.
The King of France wishes
Your Holiness every success...
...in your enterprise.
- Yes, and spies on me...
in my own court, stirs up my
enemies throughout Italy...
and even boasts in private
that he will put a Frenchman...
on the throne of Peter and before
long make me his chaplain!
But His Majesty entertains nothing
but veneration for Your Holiness.
His Majesty called
me anti-Christ...
that only a stick on my back
would keep me in order.
Let him learn that
I too carry a stick.
Let him learn that I am the Pope!
The audience is over.
Buonarroti.
I am glad, my son, to see you
here in Rome and at work...
even though I had declared a holiday.
I commend such zeal.
I recall the last time I gave
you a commission...
you ran from me as though
I had the pox.
And Your Holiness will
also recall the reason.
When I applied for payment,
you had me driven from this palace...
...as though I had the pox.
- Silence!
You will speak only when
I give you permission!
And then you will
not speak of money!
During my campaign
in the Romagna...
I found time to do some reading.
I didn't know you
were a poet, Buonarroti.
"On Rome in the Pontificate
of Julius, the Second.
A Sonnet."
"Here helms and swords
are made of chalices:
the blood of Christ is
sold so much the quart."
Recognize those words?
Or these?
"He who wears the Papal crown,
is my Medusa still."
I have been compared to Lucifer...
Beelzebub, the Anti-Christ,
but never before Medusa!
This presumptuous Florentine
should be handed over...
to the hangman of Sant'Angelo.
This presumptuous Florentine
has been described...
as the master artist
of the world.
Certainly a better artist
than he is a poet.
Well?
Are you dumb?
I was waiting Your Holiness's
permission to speak.
You have it!
I was angry when I wrote that.
It was...
when you hadn't
paid me for the...
Also, you have been as free
with your tongue as your pen!
You have called me a conqueror.
A free booter!
When I modelled you in Bologna,
you told me yourself...
to put a sword in your hand.
And if I had not taken the sword...
if I had not become a conqueror...
there would be no Church,
no pontiff...
no hope of peace for mankind.
And, I may add,
no patron of architecture...
sculpture and painting and therefore
no comfortable living for artists.
I don't ask for comforts,
Holiness. Only work.
Good. I have work for you.
I have already begun it.
The tomb that is to
make me famous?
Do you really believe that?
That I hunger for personal fame?
You have always misunderstood me,
Buonarroti.
I am not the Borgia.
I seek honor for the Church,
not for myself.
And I will use art as I use the sword,
for the glory of the Faith.
I will build a new St. Peter's which
will become the first church...
in Christendom, the true house of
God and the center of our faith.
That much is clearly my duty...
even though Bramante may bankrupt
me before he is finished.
How many men are at
work on the foundations?
- Two thousand, Holiness.
- Two thousand.
I could have used such an army
in the siege of Bologna.
But the tomb.
The tomb.
What purpose is served
by the tomb?
Is my new cathedral to be nothing
but a setting for a sculpture group?
And in the center of the nave,
under the dome?
Do I not run the risk of
seeming vainglorious...
when all men know that
I am humble and meek?
Yes, meek. Besides, Buonarroti,
by my calculation...
you could not complete the work in
less than a hundred and sixty years.
And there's the cost.
If I allowed you to continue...
I should become
doubly bankrupt.
No, we will forget about my tomb.
For the time being, at least.
Do I have Your Holiness's
permission to return to Florence?
No. I told you I had work
for you! Come!
This chapel is very
dear to my heart.
As you know, it was built
by my uncle, Pope Sixtus.
That is why it is
called the Sistine.
What is your opinion
of the architecture?
Now the truth, Buonarroti.
The architecture? It has no more
architecture than a cow barn.
Bramante agrees with you.
In this, if nothing else.
And do you think it's proper for
your pontiff to conduct Mass...
in a barn fit only
for stabling cattle?
I am no judge of what's
proper for a pontiff.
Why this sudden modesty,
Buonarroti?
Then we agree that something
must be done.
Bramante wants to pull it
down and build a new chapel.
Bramante is very fond
of pulling things down.
But I have a better solution.
Better, less destructive...
and cheaper.
My son, I have decided to honor you
above all the painting master of Italy.
Painting masters?
You will correct the clumsiness,
of my uncle's architects.
Your commission is
to decorate the ceiling.
But your Holy Father,
I am a sculptor, not a painter!
Buonarroti! This new modesty
of yours is becoming a disease.
Did you not study the art
of fresco painting...
...under the great Ghirlandaio?
- Yes!
Did you not paint a Holy Family
for an obscure Florentine banker?
- That was just a diversion. This...
- And was not your fresco judged...
superior even to the panel
of Leonardo da Vinci?
- Florence is my city, Holiness!
- And I am your pontiff, Buonarroti!
Would you refuse me what you
did not refuse the bankers...
...and politicians of Florence?
- But...
Can it be that you are afraid?
Do you doubt your ability
to complete such a task?
I am not afraid, Holiness!
But...
But?
- Nothing, Holy Father.
- Very well.
You will paint the
Twelve Apostles on the ceiling...
and decorate the vault
with appropriate designs.
For this, you will be paid three...
er... two thousand ducats...
less the rent of the house
I will provide for you.
Michelangelo, please,
come and join our party.
I'm not dressed for such
a gathering, Your Eminence.
Here, read that.
But this is madness!
You, an architect for
the Sultan of Turkey?
The Sultan's ducats are
as good as the Pope's.
Better. He's ready
to pay in advance.
Besides, to throw a bridge
across the Golden Horn...
...there's a challenge.
- To an engineer, to Bramante...
...even to Leonardo, not Michelangelo.
- Why not Michelangelo?
Better a good bridge
than a bad fresco.
- Tessina, he's going to Turkey.
- When do you leave?
Now. Tonight.
I take ship at Naples
for Constantinople.
I couldn't leave without paying
my respects to you and your brother.
And to your husband, of course.
Piero's in Spain on an
embassy for the Pope.
So... this is farewell.
- Farewell?
- She's right.
You can't return to Italy.
Not while Julius lives.
It will make difficulties for me,
for the family.
Because an artist refuses
a commission?
Why not? In Florence, where
my father recognized your work...
you became a Medici artist.
Therefore I am, to some extent,
your sponsor here.
Julius is at war,
suspicious of everyone...
especially the Florentines.
These days, we all walk on
the sharp edge of a sword.
I could stop you.
Inform him of your intentions.
As a cardinal,
perhaps it's my duty.
Will you?
And let him stretch that stiff
neck of yours at the end of a rope?
No.
I can't forget that my father
looked on you as another son.
Tessina, tell him he's mad.
Maybe he'll listen to you.
Why waste words if
he's made up his mind?
Well, I am sorry to cause
trouble for your family.
Oh, my brother makes much
too much of the whole affair.
- It's unimportant.
- It's important to me!
I mean, the family will survive.
Artists come and go. So do popes.
The Medici remain.
You understand,
my hand was forced.
Julius wants to destroy me
with this commission.
Destroy me and cast me into hell.
From what I've heard,
perhaps only Purgatory.
Purgatory is for sinners
against God.
And you have sinned against the Pope,
which is a much more important matter.
You shouldn't have written
that sonnet, Michelangelo.
- It was indiscreet, to say the least!
- I know it was indiscreet! But...
why he should have the right to do this
to me? To drown me in paint for it?
That's what really troubles you,
isn't it?
- That Julius should have his way?
- Princes and tyrants...
...shouldn't order the lives of artists.
- You didn't object when my father...
...ordered your life!
- That was different.
He was Lorenzo, the Magnificent!
He was an artist himself!
Besides, he didn't order my life.
He inspired it.
Besides, when he brought
me to live in your house...
You remember, Tessina,
how the world looked then?
All virgin marble ready to take
any shape we wanted.
Not like it is now, when a sculptor
is set painting ceilings...
and a freebooter leads
the Church of God.
I'm sure you'll find Turkey
much more satisfying.
More satisfying than
twelve draped apostles...
and appropriate designs.
On a curved surface,
seventy feet in the air!
I can see how you would be
afraid of such a commission.
I am not afraid of it!
Why do you always twist my words?
It's just that art is not a matter
of appropriate design.
It's not mathematics,
or politics, or even beauty.
It's an idea, an inspiration...
in paint, or bronze, or...
truly most,
most truly in marble!
There's no inspiration
in this ceiling!
So you will throw an inspired
bridge across a Turkish backwater?
Yes! Are you trying
to change my mind?
Well, it had occurred to me that
you were trying to change it.
Why else would you argue
with yourself?
I am not arguing with myself.
I'm asking for your opinion.
- Should you go?
- Yes.
If you feel you must.
The few months it would take you
to paint the ceiling...
would obviously ruin your life.
Exile among the infidels
is much to be preferred.
And I'm sure you'll be very
happy in Constantinople...
as long as you refrain from
writing sonnets to the Sultan.
For then you will drown not in paint,
but in the Bosphorus.
You're laughing at me!
But then you always did.
Not always, Michelangelo.
There was a time when...
there was nothing more important
to me than your laughter.
And you always told me the truth.
Tell me now.
Am I a fool?
You are...
yourself.
I wouldn't change
that even if I could.
Nor your mind.
Not even my father
had that power.
Do as you please, Michelangelo.
You always have.
I must go.
A pleasant voyage to you.
Oh, and as you know...
the best fresco assistants
are to be found in Florence.
What are you trying to do,
ruin my work?
What is the meaning
of this blasphemy?
- I have come back from Florence...
- Michelangelo is complaining...
One at a time!
I come back from Florence
with my assistants...
to find Bramante has
put up this scaffolding!
- By my orders.
- But what does he intend to do...
with those holes in the ceiling
after the timbers come down?
Leave them, Holy Father. It's the
usual custom. It can't be helped.
And leave my painting
full of holes?
- Well, if can't be helped.
- But it can be helped!
I can design a scaffolding myself
which will never touch the ceiling.
Do you claim to be
an architect, too?
Do you claim to be one,
if that's the best you can do?
Bramante is my architect.
I pay him for it. I pay you to paint.
Have you been trained
as an architect?
- No, Your Holiness.
- You have my permission...
to tear down Bramante's scaffolding
and build your own.
But it must not touch the ceiling
and the painting must be perfect.
Who are these men?
These are my new assistants
from Florence, Holiness.
That is Francisco Granacci. We were
students together under Ghirlandaio.
He is a master of fresco.
Then Master Granacci
is doubly welcome...
since painting is not
Michelangelo's trade.
And herewith, if you want to brawl,
do it in the streets.
Try this.
No, it's still got too
much red in it. Try again.
Enough for today.
Magnificent.
Wine.
Tell me now!
Is it a devil?
No! It's a saint!
See? A saint.
An apostle.
You're wicked.
You shouldn't mock the apostles.
I don't mock them.
They mock me. All twelve of them.
Hey, Nino!
This wine's sour.
My wine sour?
That's a new cask.
- I opened it only ten minutes ago.
- It's too sour.
Do you want your
nose broken again?
I can't drink this swill.
If the wine is sour, throw it out!
If the wine is sour, throw it out!
That is why it is necessary to
support our armies in Bologna...
and show ourselves to the people...
demonstrating we will
not tolerate the enemy...
who wishes to separate the
Papal States of the church...
and destroy us.
- Where is he?
- He has disappeared, Holiness.
I've just come from his house.
His servant knows nothing.
You questioned his assistants,
those Florentines?
Yes, Holiness.
He woke them late last night,
paid them a month's wages.
- They haven't seen him since.
- Search the city!
Search the ships in every port.
Let it be known that I will put
any city or country...
that gives him refuge under
a papal ban.
Florence in particular.
It is a pity this task has proved
too much for Michelangelo.
I would suggest another painter.
Such as Raphael de Santi of Urbino...
...who happens to be...
- Who happens by merest coincidence...
to be in my court today.
I have seen your work.
It shows promise.
You are no Florentine,
another point in your favor.
I'll have a commission for you, when
I return. An important commission.
But not the Ceiling.
Michelangelo will paint the Ceiling!
He will paint it or he will hang!
Game's over. Off to bed.
I'll come up later.
They have turned
the city upside down.
I know. They questioned
the servants this afternoon.
Julius says he'll hang him.
And if he doesn't, I will.
I've been ill all day.
Artists! They're all alike.
Conceited. Ungrateful. Faithless.
Michelangelo's vice
is too much faith.
He hasn't merely destroyed the fresco.
He's humiliated the Pope. Why?
He hated the idea of the fresco,
the lack of an idea.
- So he's gone to Constantinople.
- I don't believe he's gone there.
He... he is a fool.
His conceit is without limit.
But he's not a coward.
He's...
he's a strange man.
My dear sister,
don't let your regard for him...
...make a fool of you.
- My regard?
I'm not blind, Tessina.
You don't keep your secrets
as well as you think.
Whatever Michelangelo is doing,
he has his own reasons.
When Julius finds him, he is finished.
Whatever his reasons.
Have you seen Michelangelo
Buonarroti?
- No. No, I haven't seen him.
- Are you sure?
Of course I'm sure. He wouldn't
come around here, anyway.
Who is it?
- What do you want?
- Michelangelo, the Florentine.
- Is he here?
- Michelangelo?
We are informed that
you once knew him.
Yes, I knew him once, long ago.
When he first came to Bologna.
- He has not been here recently?
- Not for many years.
You are a fool, soldier,
to look for him here.
You can search the whole world,
you will never find Michelangelo...
in a house like this.
Michelangelo here.
Doesn't he ever stop worrying?
No. Not until he finds
what he's looking for.
- Look it!
- Look who's coming!
- Look!
- The Pope's men.
Here they come!
You there!
Have you seen Michelangelo?
Have you seen Michelangelo,
the Florentine?
You know he is here in Carrara.
Any of you?
Get away!
What are you waiting for?
Into the mountains. Go on! Go on!
You there! Above!
Have you seen Michelangelo,
the Florentine?
- Don't understand!
- Stupid peasants.
Come on!
Stop. Wait. Wait.
Let it go! Let it go!
Michelangelo!
Here take this!
Quickly! Hurry up! Hurry up!
Go on!
Follow me. Come on!
So God created man...
in His own image.
In the image of God
He created him.
Male and female.
And God said: "Let the waters
bring forth abundantly...
moving creatures that have life.
And fowl that may
fly above the Earth...
in the open firmament of heaven."
The envoy is returning.
Your Holiness,
the enemy has refused to talk.
Very well. If they want more
bloodshed be it on their heads.
- Prepare to attack.
- Yes, Your Holiness.
Prepare to attack!
Lancers to the westward!
Your Holiness.
- Where did you find him?
- Behind the lines, Your Holiness.
- He was trying to get through. I...
- He dragged me here like a criminal!
- Silence!
- I tell you, I was coming to see you.
- Where were you?
- Carrara, at the quarries.
- Doing what?
- Thinking.
All this time in Carrara, thinking!
I decided that your ideas
for the Sistine are unworthy.
In Carrara, at the quarries,
you've been thinking...
my ideas are unworthy
of your talent!
And of your chapel, Holiness.
I completed one panel.
- Part of another.
- I saw!
- You saw they were poor.
- Not in my judgment!
- Then your judgment is not mine.
- Yours is superior to mine?
- My son?
- In matters of art, yes, Holy Father.
The wine was sour.
I threw it out.
Let me show Your Holiness.
Holiness, the enemy
has found our range.
Will you give the order
to open fire?
- What is this?
- The Sacrifice of Noah.
- And this is the Flood.
- Yes.
And this?
That's the Expulsion from the
the Garden of Eden, the...
the Creation of Adam,
the Sun and the Moon.
Genesis.
Covering the entire ceiling, not
just the side panels as you planned.
You see, this is my plan
for the whole work.
Now, spacing the central panels
will be the...
pagan Sibyls and the Hebrew Prophets
who foresaw the coming of Christ.
- And below, the ancestors of Christ.
- And appropriate designs.
No. No appropriate designs.
I am not a decorator, Holiness.
With your permission, I'll cover
the entire vault with glory.
Your Holiness,
the men are in position to attack.
We must move now.
- How much time?
- Several months. Perhaps a year.
- There's five times as much work.
- And cost I suppose?
It won't be cheap.
Well, I'm in a mood to be
generous, Buonarroti.
I will double your grant.
Four thousand ducats.
- For five times the work?
- It's all I can afford!
It costs me more to paint a ceiling
than lay siege to a city!
I should have at least ten
thousand, Holiness.
- I'll give you five.
- Eight.
Six! Six thousand ducats.
My last word.
Would you bargain
with your pontiff?
- As you wish, Holy Father.
- Six thousand ducats then.
Less the rent of your house,
of course.
You will recall your assistants
from Florence?
No. I'll work alone.
It's the only way.
- And you will complete the work.
- I will complete it.
- Are you sure you can?
- I am sure.
Even though painting
is not your trade?
- I will make it my trade.
- Good.
To work, my son.
Give him an escort to Rome!
Your own Swiss Guards.
- I want him there alive.
- Very good, Your Holiness.
You see, I couldn't give you
something mediocre.
- Even if it's all you asked for.
- It's not what your Holiness planned.
No. I planned a ceiling.
He plans a miracle.
What are you waiting for? Attack!
Attack!
Open fire!
Come on.
- Master.
- What is it?
From the Vatican treasury.
It's my pay. At last.
It's a bill!
Two months' rent!
His Holiness sent me a bill
for two months' rent!
He hasn't even paid me for
six months! Six months!
When will you make an end?
When I am finished.
When will you make an end?
When I am finished.
I am sorry, Tessina.
I am truly sorry.
Why be sorry?
It was a great success!
I spent a delightful evening making
conversation with an empty chair.
- Slipped my mind, that.
- Three hundred guests.
It's taken me six months to collect
artists from France and Spain.
Scholars from Germany
and England.
All anxious to meet
the great Michelangelo.
I forgot!
I was working and I forgot!
I suppose I should
apologize to your brother.
Why? Why should anyone expect
the slightest courtesy from you.
Now I understand my brother,
Bramante, the Pope, all of them.
The reason that you have no
friends is that you are impossible!
And it's my misfortune
to love the impossible.
Tessina, if I ever loved,
it would be you.
Nothing's changed really.
- Except you're married.
- I submitted to a ceremony.
And to an embrace?
The contract called for children.
I'll never understand
the ways of nobility.
We're not noble,
we're solid merchant stock...
with old-fashioned ideas.
Once we love, it's forever.
- Is it another woman?
- No.
And...
it's not that either.
In Florence,
years ago I loved you.
I loved you.
But now there's...
there's no room in me for love.
Maybe there never was.
I wondered about that.
In Bologna there was a woman,
a courtesan.
Beautiful. I was attracted to her,
made love to her...
even wrote a sonnet to her.
It was a poor thing.
The words meant nothing,
because she meant nothing.
Less than nothing.
It left me empty.
After that I prayed...
prayed for understanding.
Maybe God crippled me...
with a purpose as he does often.
The bird's weak.
He gives it wings. The deer's
helpless. He made it swift.
He made Homer blind. And let
him see the world more clearly...
than any other man.
He gave me the power to create...
to fashion my own kind...
only here...
in these.
To other men He gives warm houses,
women and children, laughter.
- To me He gives...
- A house without love?
- No.
- A monastery?
No, filled with love
but of a different kind.
You don't believe
what I'm telling you.
I believe you think that
what you say is true.
I believe that you're lonely...
that you have made a
monastery of your work.
And this and your loneliness have
made things seem true...
which are not true.
They are.
You loved me once?
The patience of our family
is a proverb in Florence.
Obscenity!
And this has taken
the man two years...
and so it will cost a fortune
to complete it.
Why, this is profligate,
just profligate!
- You're right. It's a delusion!
- Obscenity! In the sight of God!
In the House of His Glory!
Obscenity! Shameful!
Shameful and obscene!
This artist takes...
his inspiration from the Greeks
who glorified the naked body.
He has turned Your Holiness's
own chapel into a pagan temple.
No, no, no!
Forgive me, Cardinal!
Rather his fault lies in having
strayed too far from the Greeks.
These twisted masses of flesh!
These tortured muscles!
Surely no Greek would have
painted so Barbarcus!
Well, Buonarroti,
what have you to say?
- Nothing.
- Nothing?
Then I should heed these critics
and order the panels repainted?
The Book of Genesis describes
Noah as being uncovered.
Am I to improve on Holy Writ
and put breeches on him.
You profane Holy Writ. The naked
body is not a fit subject for art.
Then God himself is profane. It was
He who created man in His own image.
Blasphemy!
He created man with pride,
not shame.
It was left to the priests
to invent shame.
- And now heresy!
- I will paint man as God made him!
In the glory of his nakedness!
But, may I suggest,
in the manner of the Greeks.
No, in my own manner!
True, no modern artist can
hope to equal the Greeks!
Why not? Why shouldn't we equal
them? Surpass them, if we can.
Really, Master Buonarroti,
I had heard you lacked modesty...
but do you claim to be
greater then the Greeks?
- I claim to be different.
- For the sake of difference?
Because I am different.
I'm a Florentine and a Christian...
painting in this century. They were
Greeks and pagans living in theirs.
Pagans? Christians? An artist
should be above such distinction.
And a cardinal, especially one who
pretends to understand art...
should be above such foolishness.
I'll tell you what stands
between us and the Greeks.
Two thousand years of human
suffering stands between us!
Christ on His Cross
stands between us.
And this difference is what
I will express in my paintings.
Just as I'll paint the truth
in spite of all the bigots...
and hypocrites in Rome!
Why do you bring fools
to judge my work?
Enough!
We have heard from piety
and learning.
And both are wrong.
The panels will not be changed.
But Buonarroti,
where will you learn respect?
When you mock my Cardinals,
you mock me, you mock the Church!
Why should I suffer your
insolence any longer?
Holiness...
...the ceiling.
- The ceiling!
Does that forgive
you everything?
This endless ceiling.
This purgatory of a ceiling.
When will you make and end of it?
When... when...
When you are finished!
When you are finished!
The only answer you have given me.
But you are not the
only artist in Rome!
No, lay more surface.
Then go home.
I'll work tonight.
Michelangelo.
Michelangelo!
He has not spoken
since we found him.
- Are there any bones broken?
- No, my lady.
We have examined him carefully.
What are you doing with the knife?
Why, we propose to bleed him,
my lady...
to release the evil humors.
Ah! You are the Pope's physicians,
are you not?
Why yes, my lady.
Ah, this man is indeed fortunate
to be in your care.
Your skills are admired
even in Florence.
- In Florence, truly?
- Truly.
Of course, in Florence...
we no longer bleed.
Rather we follow the methods of the...
of the Moorish healers, with which
I am sure you are both familiar.
But of course, my lady.
I am very grateful for all
you've done.
I shall commend you both
to His Holiness.
Oh but, my lady,
we have been instructed to...
I shall call you if you are
needed any further.
Good day, gentlemen.
Thank you.
It's no wonder, my lady. For a week
he's hardly eaten or slept.
I know. I've seen him in
one of his working fevers.
Here.
Get some water, will you?
And you'll make some broth?
Michelangelo.
Who is it?
Can't you see me?
Yes, I can see you.
I dreamt I was blind.
I couldn't...
No!
I was blind!
Help me get these
filthy clothes off him.
You, who preach the beauty and
nobility of the human body.
Look what you have done to yours!
Do you know, Michelangelo...
you smell!
As Your Holiness instructed,
I called on Michelangelo.
He's still very weak.
The Lady Countessina permitted
me only a few words with him.
- She is there? In his house?
- Every day, Holiness.
She refuses to admit
your physicians.
It'll be some time before he is
able to climb the scaffolding again.
- Well, how long? A month? A year?
- I fear never.
You don't fear, Bramante. You hope.
The ceiling will be finished.
Holiness, with your permission,
there's something...
I would like to show you. Please.
I see that you've been to the
Sistine Chapel, Master Raphael.
Yes, Your Holiness.
Remarkable.
Quite remarkable.
I congratulate you.
Don't you think today would be
a good day to try your new stick?
Finished?
And they say that Raphael
can draw with your strength.
But you can't draw
with his grace.
- Who says that.
- Should know your enemies by now.
Will this be Adam?
No, just a decoration.
I wish you'd leave my worktable
alone. I can never find anything.
A decoration?
I needed some figures to space
the main panels.
And the female figures?
There won't be any.
Why should there be?
God made man in His image.
Woman He made from a rib.
No wonder you have such a
reputation for gallantry Michelangelo.
And this?
Oh, it'll never be painted.
Why should I?
Why should I drag myself
up those scaffolds again?
How many more weeks? Months?
On a commission I never wanted?
While he lurks below,
spying on me?
"When will you make an end?
When will you make an end?"
Well, I have made an end.
Even if I had the
strength to go on.
I don't have the will.
Ah, the Lady Ridolfi de' Medici.
Our beloved daughter...
who took it upon herself
to dismiss our physicians.
No, no, no!
You will not rise.
You are not well.
Your Holiness does me honor.
I come to make amends
to you, my son.
A little penance
I had given myself.
I have treated you harshly,
and helped bring you to this...
sorry state. I admit
my responsibility. And regret it.
Yes, Holy Father.
But now your trials are at an end.
I bring you glad news.
I relieve you of your commission.
You are free.
You will continue to receive
full payment, of course.
- I haven't received any payment.
- Full payment, I say...
until you have recovered
your health.
When you can return to Florence,
free of all obligations, all cares.
But, Holy Father,
what about the ceiling?
Yes, the ceiling.
I have considered other
arrangements about the ceiling.
- Your health is more important to me.
- What other arrangements?
I have been considering your young
colleague, Raphael.
Raphael?
Paint my ceiling?
Your ceiling, did you say?
It is only yours as long
as you work on it.
Otherwise, it is mine.
Mine! Is that clear?
But you promised me.
You can call yours only what
I choose to bestow on you.
If I give you the ceiling,
it is yours.
- Lf I give it to Raphael, it is his.
- Oh, no, Holiness. I can't.
I wish you good health
and good fortune.
Your Holiness, you can't mean it.
You'll destroy him.
I don't have to tell the daughter of
Lorenzo that an artist is destroyed...
only when he is
kept from his work.
But I haven't kept him
from his work.
I have merely saved his life.
I dismissed your bungling
physicians because they certainly...
would have killed him.
I fed him, nursed him.
Yes, and catered to
his weaknesses. Why?
To make a plaything
for a noble woman?
What Your Holiness suggests
does us both dishonor.
I don't deny.
I have a certain love for him.
But he's been desperately ill.
Believe me, his health has
been my only concern.
I should get him well soon.
The cure for Michelangelo's illness
is not love...
but work.
Then, then you're not thinking
of Raphael?
I am thinking of
the Sistine ceiling.
Nothing else.
If you send him back to work too
soon, he'll paint in his own blood.
What runs in Michelangelo's
veins is not blood but paint.
In time you will discover
that for yourself.
Goodnight, my daughter.
I think we can safely say that
Buonarroti will be back...
...on the ceiling within the week.
- Holiness, I thought you said.
These were for my tomb?
And I've paid for them?
Yes, Holiness.
Perhaps we were a little hasty
in abandoning the tomb.
Costly, yes, in money and time,
vainglorious perhaps...
but a fitting monument, after all.
Just the thing for the nave
of St. Peter's in the center.
Under the dome.
- Why this graveyard face?
- The news is grave, Holiness.
The French have invaded Lombardy.
The Germans are at the Brenner Pass.
Ferrara and Bologna have joined
the alliance against Your Holiness.
Milan is besieged.
Nothing stands between your enemies
and Rome itself, Your Holiness.
Nothing but the few troops
that I am gathering here.
- No word from Spain?
- No, Holiness.
How soon can your mercenaries
be made ready to march?
Holiness, they're tearing
down the scaffolding.
Silence!
How dare you interrupt me?
- But, Your Holiness.
- Wait!
You will have your answer.
Now wait!
- When can you march?
- Retreat from Rome?
- I should think we.
- I said March.
Forward! Against the Germans
and the French?
At once, Holiness.
But it is my duty to tell you that
you should either retreat...
or negotiate.
As Pope I can do neither
and remain Pope.
I will attack because I must.
We leave today and join our troops.
Yes, Holiness.
You wonder why I ordered the
scaffolding to be taken down.
I suppose I should
have consulted you.
I have much on my mind.
Is my commission at an end?
Of course not.
Is that what you thought?
What else was I to think?
No, no, no. I just wanted people
to see what had been done.
But my work... is... not finished.
The Creation of Adam,
the heart of the fresco...
the Sun and the Moon.
Buonarroti! How many times
have I asked you...
when you will make an end?
And what has your answer been?
"When I am finished,
when I am finished!"
I can wait no longer for
the end that will never come.
But show my work unfinished!
I've never done that!
- You will do so now.
- But why? Why?
- Because I order it!
- I will not obey you!
Will not? Did I hear
you correctly? Will not?
Yes, I'll destroy it first,
with my own hands.
I have suffered your insolence
for the last time.
Your commission is at an end.
You are dismissed.
Michelangelo, the chapel's
been crowded all day.
Master Buonarroti,
you claim not to be a painter...
but you have sent us
all back to school.
But we are wondering when are you
going to decide to finish the work?
Ask yourself that question. The
Pope will want the ceiling finished.
Who else would he choose but you?
You have master my style already.
It is true that I wanted your
commission. I admit it freely.
But today I came
here in good faith.
To tell you of my admiration
for your work.
I don't want to finish your ceiling
now and I doubt if I could.
Perhaps. Still...
I mean it... I...
I hope you will finish the chapel.
I'll never go in it again.
If he should apologize?
- Popes don't apologize.
- Excuse me...
but I think you should
apologize to him.
For being beaten by him,
like a disobedient servant?
Well, what is an artist in
this world but a servant?
A lackey for the
rich and powerful.
Before we even begin to work,
to feed this craving of ours...
we must find a patron.
A rich man of affairs,
or a merchant, or a prince...
or a Pope.
We must bow, fawn, kiss hands.
To be able to do the things
we must do, or die.
We are harlots,
always peddling beauty...
at the doorsteps of the mighty.
If it comes to that,
I won't be an artist.
You'll always be an artist.
You have no choice.
Are you really so blind?
Why do you think he
wanted to show the ceiling?
- Because he was ashamed of it?
- Ashamed?
Of course not. What a stupid thing
to say. He was proud of it!
So he insulted you by showing
it to the world.
- Half-finished.
- Half-finished, yes.
Listen, he rode off in almost
hopeless cause.
Knowing that he might never
live to see the fresco finished.
Are you the only one in Rome
who doesn't know that?
Maybe. I don't pay
attention to these.
Is it a crime that he wants the
world to see it and to share...
in his pride? This fresco that
he's forced you to paint...
come day and night to watch,
defended against its critics...
this work of art which to him
had become a work of love.
- Of love?
- Yes, love!
We always come back to that,
don't we, Michelangelo?
This is one emotion which you
seem unable to comprehend.
Was it love which made him
break his stick across my back?
Love takes us in strange ways.
It's the language of the blood.
It's neither cold nor indifferent.
It's either agony or ecstasy,
sometimes both at once.
Everything you say may be true,
but it, it's come too late.
He's withdrawn the commission.
And can you think of no condition
under which he might restore it?
Even if it means swallowing
that mighty pride of yours?
- Tessina.
- Michelangelo...
make up your mind, once and for all.
Do you want to finish that ceiling?
More than my life.
Then finish it.
What do you want?
Holy Father, I ask you permission
to return to the Sistine...
and finish my work.
You ask something
that I cannot grant.
I can give you permission to return,
but not to complete the fresco.
This you will have to ask of my
enemies who will be in Rome.
In a few weeks. I doubt if they'll
be anxious for you to complete...
the decorations of my chapel.
Well, still I would like to try,
Holiness.
Laudable, Buonarroti, but foolish.
Why waste your talent?
They are come to Rome
as the Vandals came...
to burn and destroy everything
that reminds them of...
one they now call anti-pope
and anti-Christ.
Do you know what they did with the
bronze you made of me in Bologna?
No, Holiness.
Melted down and recast as a
cannon which they named...
the Julia in my honor.
Don't delude yourself they'll
hold your fresco sacred.
I don't think that, Holiness.
Very well.
You have my permission.
You see, my son, how well
we understand each other...
when you don't shout.
Holy Father, I know it's forbidden
to mention the subject but...
but the scaffolding
has to be rebuilt.
And I must have money
to pay for it.
I remember the Sultan paid you
in advance for that bridge...
you never built.
I'll accept that as a personal gift.
All the Sultan's money was returned,
every ducat of it.
- You returned it?
- Yes, Holiness.
A pity you were so generous
with the infidel.
I can give you nothing.
There is one way. I could sell
those marble blocks for your tomb.
They should bring a good price.
I'll try.
We can fall back on Perugia
with Lake Trasimeno to protect flank.
Master de Granacci.
Is a red hat still of any value?
Are there any still willing to
pay me for elevating them...
to the Sacred College?
Your Holiness already plans to
create three new cardinals.
Yes, to feed the troops.
Yes, Holiness.
Well, instead of three, we'll
create four new cardinals.
Three red hats will keep
the army in bread.
A fourth can buy paint
for Michelangelo.
Your Holiness,
do we continue the retreat?
We'll fight wherever we can,
even to the gates of Rome itself.
Master.
Is that truly how you see Him,
my son?
Yes, Holy Father.
Not angry, not vengeful.
But like that, strong,
benign, loving.
He knows anger too.
But the act of creation
is an act of love.
You have what I need in life,
my son...
if you can picture Him like that.
I am grateful for His gift to me.
The most perfect of gifts.
If I had to choose
my life over again.
I would first choose
to be an artist.
What you have painted there,
my son...
is not a portrait of God.
It's a proof of faith.
I hadn't thought that faith
needed proof.
Not if you're a saint,
or an artist.
I am a merely Pope.
I thank you.
The new-made Adam.
And this is how you see man?
Noble, beautiful, unafraid?
How else could I see him?
As he is.
Corrupt and evil.
Hands dripping of blood,
destined for damnation.
Your painting's beautiful,
but false.
I cannot change my conception.
You taught me not to waste my time
trying to change your conceptions.
How did you arrive at this?
My thought. My idea for the
panel was that Man's evil.
He learned from himself,
not from God.
Ah, yes.
I wanted to paint Man as
he was first created.
Innocent.
Still free of sin.
Grateful for the gift of life.
The gift of life.
Recently I have prayed for the
gift of death.
But like most my prayers,
it went unheard.
God sometimes appears to be deaf.
Perhaps I should
have been an artist.
Then He would have listened to me,
as appears to have listened to you.
You make a better priest than
I do, Michelangelo.
Yet I have tried to serve Him
in the only way I know.
If I could not do so as His priest,
I would do so as His soldier.
And even in that I have failed.
Now they will hunt
me out of Rome.
And the kings will pick the
bones of Mother Church.
Then even this they will destroy
because I have failed.
I am sorry for that, my son.
It's a terrible thing to strive
for a lifetime.
And come to the final realization
that you have failed.
- Well?
- The Pope is making a confession.
- This last attack.
- You've heard the news?
Everything we have prayed
for is coming to pass to late.
The Spaniards are marching
north from Naples to our aid.
The Swiss are ready to move
south against Milan.
Even young King Harry of
England has announced.
His support of the Pope.
Too late.
- All too late!
- And when they hear he's stricken?
Our new allies? They'll turn back.
Without a leader...
without Julius,
there is no alliance.
Julius is the alliance,
its heart and soul.
- They will turn back.
- And then?
The French and Germans will
take Rome and elect a new Pope.
Who will be a mere
chaplain to the kings.
It's you and the others that called
him a freebooter, a butcher...
a conqueror.
You've never understood him.
He took up the sword to build
a strong, independent Church.
With power to keep peace
among the ambitious kings.
This was the heart of his policy.
It's what he lived for...
and what he's dying for.
Gentlemen, we should be
considering our places of exile.
Holy Father.
I have come to take my
leave of Your Holiness.
- Leave?
- Yes, Holiness.
You were right. It's useless
to go on with the ceiling.
I am returning to Florence.
Wait!
You dare!
You dare leave your work
without my permission!
Then I ask permission
of Your Holiness.
It is refused. Do you hear?
It is refused!
You will complete your work!
Why should I?
You haven't completed yours.
Holy Father.
Insolence!
Then why don't you take a
stick to me? You did before.
I will!
And I will give you your choice!
You will return to the Sistine
Chapel or you will go to a dungeon!
My son!
Yes, Holy Father.
What are you doing here?
Have you no other duties?
Did you think I intended to die?
Vultures! Jackals!
Out of my sight! Out of my sight!
Out! Out!
Out!
What can I say?
I think there is more love here
than could ever exist...
between man and woman.
That's what you meant.
Buonarroti!
Something must be done about
that ruined wall, above the altar.
Another fresco, I think.
Yes, a Crucifixion,
or a Last Judgment.
Some noble subject
worthy of your hand.
But, your tomb,
Your Holiness promised me!
Will you always cross me,
Buonarroti?
You promised that after the
ceiling I could carve the tomb!
And now I make a condition
do the promise!
You will carve the tomb after
you have finished the fresco!
As you wish, Holy Father.
No, my son.
I will not hold you to that.
You are right. It is time
to begin work on the tomb.
There is need for it.
Very soon now I shall know...
whether your conception
of God is a true one.
Your Holiness recovered before.
I had not finished my work.
As you were so insolent
enough to point out.
Now it is finished,
and I am content.
And you?
Are you content, my son?
I still say painting
is not my trade.
I will give you my opinion:
I fear I shall be known.
As the Pope that drove
the invaders out of Italy.
But one who forced an unwilling
artist to complete his work.
Which is so much greater
than both of us.
You didn't force me, Holiness.
Your memory is short, Buonarroti.
I reached out my hand to you,
like God do Adam...
and forced you to accept life.
Only your hand had a stick in it.
Ah, I grant you that.
But Adam was not so stubborn...
not so unwilling to live as you.
You know, Buonarroti,
I almost let you off twice?
I was sorry for you.
Are you glad not that I did not?
I am grateful.
Save your gratitude for one
who deserves it.
No, no, not I.
I take no credit.
I was moved by another hand...
as easily and skillfully
as you move your brush.
Strange how He works His will.
Let us share pride in having been
made His instruments.
It's only painted plaster,
Holy Father.
No, my son.
It is more than that.
Much more.
What has it taught you,
Michelangelo?
That I am not alone.
And it has taught me
that the world is not alone.
When I stand before the Throne.
I shall throw your ceiling into
the balance against my sins.
Perhaps it will shorten
my time in Purgatory.
To work, my son.