The first thing moviegoers should know about Cabrini, the Angel Studios biopic on the revered Italian-American Catholic saint, is that it is not a typical faith-based film. Director Alejandro Monteverde (Sound of Freedom) explicitly rejects the label, suggesting it confines the story’s reach. Considering that Mother Cabrini is remembered as the founder of the Missionary Sisters of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, this raises a question: How do you approach a story about a religious figure without delving into the faith that defines her legacy?
Monteverde’s answer lies in the film’s poignant opening sequences, which plunge us into the harsh realities immigrants confronted in New York during the 1880s. We follow a young Italian boy, Paolo, frantically pushing a wheelbarrow carrying his ailing mother through Manhattan’s bustling streets. When they arrive at a hospital, Paolo is told they would not be seen because she’s Italian. The woman dies and a police officer treats her newly orphaned son with contempt.
We are then transported to the picturesque Italian countryside of Codogno, where we see the silhouette of Frances Xavier Cabrini (Cristiana Dell’Anna) who, unbeknownst to viewers, is suffering from lingering post-tuberculosis symptoms. This day will mark a significant turn in her life as she is summoned to the Vatican. The journey to Rome, captured through the film’s expansive widescreen cinematography, captivates audiences as Mother Cabrini walks through the majesty of St. Peter’s Square.
At the Vatican, a cardinal briskly denies her request to start an orphanage in Peking while reminding her of her place as a woman. Unshaken, Cabrini counters the dismissal with a powerful reminder: If God entrusted women with the news of Christ’s resurrection, they’re equally capable of overseas missions. This retort not only showcases Cabrini’s perseverance but also underscores the film’s recurring critique of entrenched biases within and outside the church’s walls.
Cabrini then seeks an audience with Pope Leo XIII, portrayed with grace by Italian film veteran Giancarlo Giannini, who reiterates the decision, albeit more kindly than his underling. Impressed by her determination, the Holy Father presents Cabrini with an alternative: serving New York’s Italian immigrants, who are in dire need of her compassion.
Upon their arrival in America, Cabrini and her fellow nuns are thrust into the stark reality of a city that is a far cry from its contemporary grandeur. Monteverde immerses the audience in the harrowing plight of the infamous Five Points district. As the nuns navigate Lower Manhattan’s material and spiritual decay, we see the Statue of Liberty glimmering in the distance. The contrast symbolizes the gap between America’s reality and promise, foreshadowing the works of mercy that Cabrini and her order will perform to build an empire of hope.
The nuns dedicate themselves to those living at the margins: comforting abused sex workers, healing the sick, and saving children from rat-infested sewers. Their charity places them directly in the path of humanity’s darker tendencies — bigotry, cruelty, cowardice, and institutional corruption.
Embodying a 19th-century Nero is a fictional mayor (portrayed by John Lithgow), who learns of the nuns’ charitable endeavors through a damning article on the dire conditions plaguing the city’s immigrants. Fearing that a spotlight on the city’s poverty would cause an uproar among Manhattan elites, he begins thwarting the nuns’ outreach.
Those acquainted with scripture can appreciate the parallels between Cabrini’s altruism and the gospels. For example, in a pivotal scene before the Italian senate, Cabrini delivers an impassioned plea for funding, reminding the senators that they will have to answer for how they treated the poor and the sick at the hour of their death (St. Matthew’s parable of the sheep and goats).
Though not entirely diluted, the film’s treatment of Cabrini’s Catholicism may be too subtle. Director Monteverde’s aversion to being pigeonholed as a “faith-based” storyteller is understandable (a two-and-a-half-hour Christian infomercial is a tough sell). However, the light-handed approach inadvertently mutes Cabrini’s fervent spirituality, which defined her life and mission.
Mother Cabrini wasn’t just a do-gooder who happened to be Catholic; she did good because she took her Catholicism seriously. This distinction is crucial, otherwise Cabrini is reduced to being a cinematic companion to Jacob Riis’s How the Other Half Lives, an Italian-American take on Hidden Figures, or Pumping Iron without the workouts.
To be sure, rendering religion accessible presents a challenge, but artists can look to history’s greatest masterpieces, marked by their intense spirituality and universal appeal, for invaluable insights. Cinema’s own canon is rich with examples of successful approaches to this conundrum — ranging from classics like De Sica’s Bicycle Thieves and Fellini’s Nights of Cabiria to more contemporary gems, like Friedkin’s The Exorcist and Scorsese’s Silence.
The film’s own epilogue may provide the best test of its narrative strategy. We learn that the Vatican expedited Cabrini’s canonization, drawing hundreds of thousands of admirers to celebrate the event. The latter is no surprise; the film’s depiction of Cabrini’s building of hospitals and orphanages for the poor is nothing short of inspiring. Yet moviegoers could be forgiven if they mistook Catholic sainthood for a humanitarian accolade.
In reality, the Vatican conferred its highest ecclesiastical honor on Mother Cabrini for the same reason anyone is watching this film a century after her passing: Through her deeds, she exemplified Christ’s love for humanity.
Cabrini is a beautifully crafted film, marked by its visual splendor, seasoned cast, evocative score, and admirable exhortation of kindness. Yet despite its strengths, it leaves audiences yearning for a deeper understanding of the forces that drove this godly woman. Far from hindering the cinematic experience, Mother Cabrini’s profound Catholicism is essential to understanding the remarkable life of a saint who walked among us — her sacrifices make little sense otherwise.