The Papal Effect: Streaming, Mourning, and the Strange Rise of The Two Popes

When Pope Francis passed away earlier this year, the world did more than mourn. It searched. Viewership numbers for papal dramas surged across streaming platforms. Old interviews were replayed. Papal Twitter parody accounts gained thousands of new followers. But perhaps most strikingly, Netflix’s The Two Popes—originally released in 2019—saw a resurgence few predicted.

We already knew that Robert Harris’s Conclave had reentered bestseller lists, with a fresh adaptation in development. But then Netflix dropped a statistic that turned heads in both Hollywood and the Vatican: The Two Popes logged over 65 million global streams in the month following Francis’ death. That’s a number usually reserved for Marvel flicks or high-stakes thrillers—not quiet chamber dramas about faith and forgiveness.

The Two Popes: A Quiet Giant

The Two Popes wasn’t built for mass consumption. Directed by Fernando Meirelles (City of God) and penned by Anthony McCarten (Bohemian Rhapsody), it is largely a two-man show. Jonathan Pryce plays Cardinal Jorge Mario Bergoglio, the future Pope Francis, while Anthony Hopkins embodies Pope Benedict XVI.

It’s a film of long conversations, flashbacks, and internal tension. There are no car chases, no dramatic betrayals, no special effects. The biggest “twist” is a change of heart. And yet, it has gripped millions, especially now.

That’s not accidental. The film touches on themes more urgent now than when it first aired: institutional failure, moral fatigue, ideological division. Francis represented a break from the past, a reluctant revolutionary. In a polarized world, he was a centrist voice in holy robes. Viewers, in mourning, turned not just to a story about him—but to a story that tried to make sense of him.

Timing and Context: The Aftermath of a Papal Death

Media patterns always spike around death. But the Pope is no ordinary public figure. His passing marks not just the end of a person, but the symbolic transition of spiritual authority for over a billion Catholics—and countless more curious outsiders.

Francis wasn’t universally loved. His openness, progressive rhetoric, and sharp criticisms of capitalism and clerical abuse put him at odds with conservatives. But he was undeniably influential.

After his death, audiences didn’t just want documentaries. They wanted dramatizations—interpretations. That’s where The Two Popes offered something unique. It didn’t deify Francis. It humanized him.

Netflix reports that the film’s engagement metrics went “beyond passive viewership.” Rewatches, searches, and social media mentions hit all-time highs. In Italy and Argentina, it was in the top 5 most-watched titles for three consecutive weeks. In the U.S., it broke back into the platform’s top 10—five years after release.

Faith on Film: Why These Stories Resonate

Religious films usually fall into two categories: preachy sermon-cinema or secularized metaphors. The Two Popes avoided both. It respected faith without being doctrinal. It was more about how belief is lived, questioned, and reshaped over time.

That nuance matters. As traditional religious practice declines in much of the Western world, people still seek out stories that explore meaning, doubt, and redemption. The film didn’t tell viewers what to think. It let them watch two men wrestle with guilt, legacy, and God.

Compare that to Conclave, Harris’s novel about the election of a new pope after a fictional pontiff’s death. It reads like a thriller: secret ballots, Vatican intrigue, last-minute revelations. When adapted into film (release date: early 2026), it will likely fuel the same surge The Two Popes just did.

But the Netflix film offers something Conclave can’t: closure. It ends with reconciliation, mutual understanding, and the start of something new. That kind of emotional arc becomes deeply cathartic during real-world loss.

Francis as Cultural Symbol

In life, Francis was more than a religious leader. He became a cultural icon—a sort of spiritual disruptor. He took selfies with teenagers, met with atheists, and urged environmental action. He criticized clericalism and supported interfaith dialogue. He was complicated.

That complexity made him a compelling subject for dramatization. Viewers didn’t just watch The Two Popes to learn about theology. They watched it to understand the man they saw on the news: his hesitations, his humor, his haunted past in Argentina.

McCarten’s script made that emotional journey tangible. He didn’t paint Francis as a flawless hero. In fact, much of the film lingers on his failures during the Dirty War in Argentina—his complicity, silence, and eventual shame. The film gives Francis depth through doubt. And viewers, facing a world of moral ambiguity, found that deeply relatable.

The Hopkins Factor: Performance as Myth-Making

Anthony Hopkins doesn’t play Benedict XVI as a villain or stoic bureaucrat. He’s tired, intellectual, and wounded. There’s humility in his performance that no documentary could fabricate. It made people reevaluate the man they only knew through headlines.

In some ways, the film rehabilitated Benedict. But it did more than that. It set up a dialectic: reason vs. compassion, tradition vs. change. The film didn’t ask audiences to choose a side. It suggested that both men were necessary to the evolution of the Church.

In an age of partisanship, that framing felt rare. And Hopkins—at 81 when he shot the film—brought weight to every line. His performance, now viewed through the lens of Francis’ death, adds another layer: the notion of institutional continuity through human fragility.

Streaming the Sacred: Netflix’s Role in Modern Religion

Streaming services are the new temples of storytelling. People don’t go to the cinema to find meaning the way they used to. They log in.

Netflix has long dabbled in spiritual content, from docuseries like The Family to animated shows about angels and demons. But The Two Popes marked a shift. It treated religion as a topic worth serious dramatic inquiry—not mockery, not mystification.

The platform’s announcement of viewership stats was strategic. In a time when theatrical attendance remains low and subscriber growth is stalling, legacy content surges provide a narrative of cultural relevance. It reminds stakeholders that art—especially well-written, serious art—has lasting power.

More importantly, it reminded audiences that faith can still be cinematic, without sacrificing complexity.

Impression

Francis’ death may have closed a chapter, but it opened a floodgate of cultural output. Already, book sales on his theology have increased. Several studios are rumored to be exploring miniseries on his papacy. There’s even talk of a dramatization of the Synod on Synodality—the controversial multi-year consultation he launched before his death.

Either or not these projects succeed depends on tone. The Two Popes worked because it was intimate. It didn’t try to solve religion. It tried to portray it.

In contrast, Conclave will likely be louder and more plot-driven. That’s not a bad thing. But it means audiences will engage differently. Instead of closure, they’ll be looking for suspense, for secrets revealed. If that film captures half the moral tension of its source material, it will be a hit.