Holy Hype and Heavenly Hardships: A Witty Take on The Song of Bernadette

The Song of Bernadette. A tale so steeped in piety, suffering, and miraculous visions that one might think Franz Werfel and Henry King teamed up to make us all feel like we’ve been woefully underachieving in our spiritual lives. Between the novel’s lofty prose and the film’s reverent close-ups of Jennifer Jones looking like she’s seen heaven’s Pinterest board, I find myself torn between awe and a desperate need for a stiff drink.

Let’s begin with the novel, shall we? Werfel’s prose is nothing short of biblical. Literally. He seems to have taken the Old Testament as his stylistic guide, sprinkling in enough solemnity to make a cathedral blush. I think he wanted to ensure that every sentence carried the weight of divine revelation. Don’t get me wrong; I appreciate a good bit of religious fervour as much as the next heathen (I’m not really), but Werfel’s tendency to hammer home Bernadette’s saintly suffering left me wondering if he was being paid by the metaphor. By the time I reached the umpteenth description of her “humble, unworldly grace,” I began to suspect that Werfel was less interested in telling a story and more in submitting a saint’s résumé to the Vatican.

And then there’s Bernadette herself. The poor girl can’t catch a break. She sees a vision of the Virgin Mary – an event most of us would consider a once-in-a-lifetime spiritual jackpot – and what does she get for it? Endless ridicule, relentless interrogations, and a future that involves scrubbing convent floors while her bones rot from tuberculosis. If this is what sainthood entails, I think I’ll stick to my tea and biscuits, thank you very much.

Now, the film. Oh, the film. Henry King’s 1943 adaptation is a Technicolor hymn to piety, with Jennifer Jones as its angelic soprano. Jones, bless her, gives a performance so earnest that I half-expected her to levitate off the screen. Her Bernadette is all wide-eyed innocence and trembling devotion, the sort of portrayal that makes you want to hand her a blanket and a hot cup of cocoa. But while Jones nails the saintly suffering, the film’s insistence on her perpetual victimhood becomes almost comical. By the time she’s limping around the convent with a tumour the size of a grapefruit, I was half-expecting her to turn to the camera and say, “And you thought your life was hard.”

The supporting cast, meanwhile, seem to have been recruited from a Dickensian villain convention. Vincent Price as the sceptical prosecutor? Magnificent. He practically twirls an invisible moustache while sneering at Bernadette’s visions. And Gladys Cooper as Sister Vauzous? She’s so bitter and condescending that I’m convinced she was sent by Satan to test Bernadette’s patience. The film’s depiction of the clergy and officials is so over-the-top that it’s hard to take their scepticism seriously. Honestly, if someone had told me that Bernadette’s visions involved the Virgin Mary recommending a good bakery, I’d have believed her just to spite them.

And then there’s the music. Alfred Newman’s score is so heavy-handed that it practically slaps you in the face with its holiness. Every time Bernadette sees the Virgin Mary, the orchestra swells as if to say, “Look! A miracle! Be amazed!” Subtlety, it seems, was not on the menu.

Despite all this, I can’t deny that both the novel and the film have their charms. There’s a sincerity to them that’s hard to resist, even when they’re laying it on thicker than clotted cream. And for all its melodrama, the story of Bernadette is undeniably moving. It’s a reminder of the power of faith, the resilience of the human spirit, and the lengths to which people will go to discredit a teenage girl who just wants to pray in peace.

So, would I recommend The Song of Bernadette? Absolutely. But only if you’re prepared to wade through a sea of sanctimony and come out the other side with a newfound appreciation for your comparatively mundane existence. After all, if Bernadette can endure ridicule, illness, and a lifetime of scrubbing floors, the least we can do is survive a few hundred pages of Werfel’s prose or two hours of Jennifer Jones looking saintlier than a stained-glass window.