Original subtitles

The dome of St. Peter's.

A triumph of engineering. A 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 400th 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 paint.

His first work, a bas-relief. The Madonna of the Stairs.

He was only 15. 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 17, he created the Battle of the Centaurs.

Limbs, muscles...

carved with a force and energy as 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 the 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 Pietá of the Duomo in Florence.

The Pietá 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 18 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 II...

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 Pietá of St. Peter's, now on exhibition at the New York World's Fair...

created by Michelangelo when he was 23.

Finished, polished, no detail untouched.

It striking contrast to this Pietá...

known as the Rondanini and considered the artist's testament.

At long intervals for the last 11 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 Pietá 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 sculptor who did not want to paint.

Ho.

Your Holiness. A great victory. A great day for Rome...

for the Church.

In the name of the Holy Church, I thank you.

Amen.

Return to Rome!

Hey, ho.

Bramante.

Let's go and see.

Whoa-ho.

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's 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.

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 40 is, uh...

I know, Bramante. I know. A hundred and sixty.

That's why I can't afford holidays.

Wait now.

Uh-huh.

- 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 this stone.

God sets them in there. The sculptor only cuts them loose. Slow, now.

And, uh, the architect?

I like your plan for St. Peter's. I told you that.

- Thank you. - Your new cathedral'll 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.

Hey.

Where are all the people?

Uh-uh.

You may tell your master, the King of France, that I have locked up...

the Cardinal of Clermont in Saint Angelo because he is no better than a spy.

I know where the loyalties of you French cardinals lie.

They belong with your 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 will remain at war until I recover 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 at your enterprise.

Yes, and spies on me in my own court...

stirs up my enemies throughout Italy...

and even boasts in private that he'll 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 "Antichrist."

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.

Audience is over.

Buonarroti.

I'm glad, my son, to see you here in Rome and at work.

Even though I 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.

Then 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 II, 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 Antichrist, 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...

Uh, also you've been as free with your tongue as your pen.

You have called me a conqueror... a freebooter.

When I modeled 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've always misunderstood me, Buonarroti.

I am not the Borgia. I seek honor for the church, not for myself.

And I use art as I use the sword, for the glory of the faith. Come.

I will build a new St. Peter's which will become a 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's finished.

- How many men are at work on the foundation? - Two thousand, Holiness.

Two thousand. I could've 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 the men know that I am humble and meek?

Yes, meek. Besides Buonarroti, by my calculation...

you could not complete the work in less than 160 years.

And there's the cost. If I allowed you to continue, I shall 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 near 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? The truth, Buonarroti.

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'm no judge of what's proper for a pontiff.

Why this sudden modesty, Buonarroti?

Then we agree something must be done.

Bramante wants to pull it down and build a new chapel.

Bramante's 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 masters of Italy.

Painting masters.

You will correct the clumsiness of my uncle's architects.

Your commission is to decorate the ceiling.

But, Holy Father, I'm 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, but... - Did you not paint a holy family for a Florentine banker?

- That was just a diversion... - 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?

Can it be that you're afraid? Do you doubt your ability to complete such a task?

- I'm not afraid, Holiness. But... - But?

- Nothing, Holy Father. - Very well.

You will paint the 12 apostles on the ceiling...

and decorate the vault with appropriate designs.

For this, you will be paid three... uh, 2,000 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.

Would you 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 'when 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?

Hmm. 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'm 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's for sinners against God.

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 should he have the right to do this to me? 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.

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 12 draped apostles and appropriate designs...

on a curved surface 70 feet in the air.

- I can see how you would be afraid of such a commission. - I'm 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.

Inspiration in paint or bronze...

or truly... most truly in marble.

There is no inspiration in this ceiling.

So you will throw an inspired bridge across a Turkish backwater?

Yes. Why are 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'm 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 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 Bosporus.

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?

- Shh! One at a time. - I come back from Florence with my assistants...

to find Bramante has put up this scaffolding.

- By my orders. - What does he intend to do with those holes in the ceiling...

- after the timber's come down? - Leave them, Holy Father.

It's the usual custom. It can't be helped.

And leave my painting full of holes?

- It can't be helped. - But it can be helped.

I can design a scaffolding myself which will never touch the ceiling.

Do you now 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.

This is Francesco Granacci. We were students together under Ghirlandaio.

He's 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.

That's enough for today.

Magnificent.

Wine.

Tell me now!

- Is it a devil? - No.

It's a saint.

See? Saint.

- An apostle. - You're wicked.

You shouldn't mock the apostles.

I don't mock them. They mock me... all 12 of them.

Nino. This wine's sour.

My wine's sour? That's a new cask.

- I opened it only 10 minutes ago. - It's still 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's 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 the merest coincidence to be in my court today.

I've seen your work. It shows promise.

You're not a 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!

Ohh!

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-The lack of an idea.

- So he goes to Constantinople. - I don't believe he's gone there.

Yes. He is a fool.

His-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 am 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's 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're informed that you once knew him.

Michelangelo? Yes. I knew him once long ago. Hmm. 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, Dad! - Look who's coming! Look!

- Look, down there! - There's some horsemen!

Here they come!

You, there, have you seen Michelangelo?

Have you seen Michelangelo, the Florentine?

You know he's 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!

Whoa! Steady! Steady!

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's returning.

Your Holiness, the enemy has refused to talk.

Very well. If they want more bloodshed, be it on their head.

- 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. - He dragged me here like a criminal. I was...

- 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.

Oh, yours is superior to mine, my son?

In matters of art, yes, Holy Father. The wine was sour.

I threw it out. Let me... 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 Garden of Eden.

The, uh, the creation of Adam...

- the sun, 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, uh...

pagan Sibyls and the Hebrew Prophets who foresaw the coming of Christ.

And below, the ancestors of Christ.

- And appropriate design. - No. No appropriate designs.

I'm 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 10,000, 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'm 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, l-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!

Psst. Psst.

Come on.

- Master. - What is it?

From the Vatican treasury.

Oh. That's my pay, at last.

No.

It's a bill for two months rent!

Ohh!

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'm finished.

When will you make an end?

When I'm finished.

- Oh, I'm 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.

- It slipped my mind. - 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 the rest.

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.

But 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 the 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.

I'm...

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've 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. Yeah, I 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... to fashion my own kind, but...

only here...

in these.

To other men, He gives warm houses and 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?

- Monstrous! - Why, it must have cost a fortune!

Look at the nudity! Just look at it!

Obscenity!

In the sight of God.

In the house of His glory! Obscenity! Shameful!

Shameful and obscene!

This artist takes his... 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.

Those twisted masses of flesh, those tortured muscles.

Surely no Greek would have painted so. Barbarous!

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.

I to improve on Holy Writ and put breeches on him?

You profane Holy Writ. A 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 than 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 stand between us.

Christ on His cross stands between us!

And this difference is what I will express in my painting.

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, when 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 an end of it?

- Wh-When... when... - When you are finished!

When you are finished! It's the only answer you've 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.

Uh, are there any bones broken?

No, my lady. We have examined him carefully.

What are you doing with that knife?

Why, we propose to bleed him, my lady, to release the evil humors.

You are the pope's physicians, are you not?

Why, yes, my lady.

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...

uh, 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'm 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're needed any further. Good day, gentlemen.

Uhh.

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? - Yes.

And, you, 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.

Here, help me get these filthy clothes off him.

You who preach the beauty and nobility of the human body...

Look what you've done to yours.

You know, Michelangelo, you smell.

As Your Holiness instructed, I called on Michelangelo. He's still very weak.

The Lady Contessina 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 you've been to the Sistine Chapel, Master Raphael.

Yes, Your Holiness.

Remarkable.

It's quite remarkable.

I congratulate you.

Don't you think today would be a good day to try your new stick, Michelangelo?

Finished?

And they say Raphael can draw with your strength...

but you can't draw with his grace.

Who says that?

You should know your enemies by now. Will this be Adam?

No, just a decoration.

I wish you'd leave my work table 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! Do not rise. You are not well.

Your Holiness does me honor.

I come to make amends to you, my son.

A little penance I have 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've recovered your health...

when you can return to Florence free of all obligations, all cares.

But, Holy Father, what about the ceiling?

Ah, yes. The-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.

If I give it to Raphael, it is his.

- Oh, no, Holiness, I can't... - I wish you good health, 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's kept from his work.

But I haven't kept him from his work. I've 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 l-I have a certain love for him.

But he's been desperately ill.

Believe me, his health has been my only concern. I shall get him well soon.

The cure for Michelangelo's illness is not love...

but work.

Then... Then you're not really thinking of Raphael?

I am thinking of the Sistine ceiling. Nothing else.

But if you send him back to work too soon, he'll paint it in his own blood.

What runs in Michelangelo's veins is not blood, it's paint.

In time, you will discover that for yourself.

Good night, my daughter.

I think we may safely say that Buonarroti will be back on the ceiling within the week.

But, Holiness, I thought you said...

These were for my tomb, eh? 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 scaffolds. - 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'd...

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've 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... It's not finished.

The creation of Adam, it's 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."

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're 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've mastered 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.

Well, still...

I mean, 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?

For 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 an 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 share in his pride...

this... 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, has become a work of love.

- Of love? - Yes, love.

We always come back to that, don't we, Michelangelo?

This one emotion which you seem unable to comprehend.

Was it love that 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's come too late.

He's withdrawn the commission.

And can you think of no conditions 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.

Buonarroti is here.

What do you want?

Holy Father...

I ask your 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 have to ask of my enemies.

They will be in Rome in a few weeks.

I doubt that they'll be anxious...

for you to complete the decoration of my chapel.

Still, I would like to try, Holiness.

Laudable, Buonarroti, but foolish.

Why waste your talents?

They'll come to Rome as the Vandals came, to burn and destroy...

everything that reminds them of one...

they now call "Anti-pope" and "Antichrist."

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.

Oh, Holy Father, I know it's forbidden...

to mention the subject of...

But the scaffolding has to be rebuilt.

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.

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 our flank.

Master De Grassis.

Is the 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.

- Ah, yes, to feed the troops. - Yes, Holiness.

Well, instead of three, we'll create four new cardinals.

If 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?

Well, he knows anger too, but...

the act of creation is an act of love.

You must have had an easy life, my son...

that you can picture Him like that.

Well, I'm...

grateful for His gift to me.

The most perfect of gifts.

If I had to choose my life over again...

I think I would 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 merely a pope.

Thank you.

The new-made Adam.

And this is how you see man...

- noble, beautiful, unafraid? - How else should I see him?

As he is...

corrupt and evil...

his hands dripping with blood, destined for damnation.

Your painting is beautiful, but false.

I cannot change my conception.

You've taught me not to waste my time...

trying to change your conceptions.

How did you arrive at this?

Well, I thought my idea for the panel...

was that man's evil he learned from himself...

not from God.

- Yes. - I wanted to paint man as he was first created...

innocent, still free of sin...

grateful for the... the gift of life.

The gift of life.

Recently, I have prayed for the gift of death.

Like most of my prayers, it went unheard.

God sometimes appears to be deaf.

Perhaps I should've been an artist...

then He would've listened to me as He 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...

and even this they will destroy...

because I have failed.

I'm 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 has taken confession.

This last attack...

- You've heard the news? - No.

Everything we have prayed for is coming to pass too 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 and 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've come to take my leave of Your Holiness.

- Leave? - Yes, Holiness.

You were right.

It's useless to go on with the ceiling.

I'm returning to Florence.

Wait.

You... 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. 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? 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's 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!

Now I make a condition to the promise.

You will carve the tomb after you finish 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 insolent enough to point out.

Now it is finished and I am content.

And you? Are you content, my son?

I still say painting's not my trade.

I will give you my opinion.

I fear that I shall be known not as a 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 to 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 now that I did not?

And grateful.

Ah, save your gratitude for one who deserves it.

Oh, 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.