In Agnes of God, director Norman Jewison attempts a cinematic version of John Pielmeier’s intense stage play about innocence, guilt, and faith. Jane Fonda plays Dr. Martha Livingston, a skeptical psychiatrist; Anne Bancroft takes on the role of Mother Miriam Ruth, the convent’s hardline superior; and Meg Tilly takes center stage as Sister Agnes—an innocent novice found cradling her dead baby. But while Tilly’s performance shines, the film as a whole proves stilted, overburdened by theatrical staging and diluted emotional impact.
1. Meg Tilly as Sister Agnes: The Only Clear Spark
From her first scene, Meg Tilly radiates vulnerability. Her portrayal of Agnes—a young woman drenched in piety yet deeply naive—captures our attention. Her wide, almost neon eyes and trembling voice convey a soul caught between the love of God and the terror of having taken a life she can’t fully remember.
Tilly’s physicality is equally heartfelt—gentle gestures, soft sighs, tears held back. When Agnes whispers prayers in the dead of night, you feel her fear and confusion. Without a hint of slick polish, she appears raw and suffering, delivering the play’s emotional heart in a way that feels genuine and human. Each time she appears on screen, you lean forward, hoping the performance will lift the film’s stifling atmosphere.
2. Jane Fonda and Anne Bancroft: Performances That Demand More Depth
Meg Tilly may carry the emotional pulse, but Jane Fonda and Anne Bancroft feel trapped in ritual rather than revelation.
Jane Fonda as Dr. Livingston
Dr. Martha Livingston is supposed to dissect Agnes’s mind, exposing motives and repressed memories. But Fonda—brilliant as ever—feels miscast. Instead of layering tension beneath every question, she sounds rehearsed. Her determination feels like moral superiority, then self-righteousness—before finally slipping into melodrama. By the second act, her version of psychological breakdown is so theatrical it feels disconnected from Agnes’s quiet terror.
Anne Bancroft as Mother Miriam Ruth
Bancroft leans into a domineering matriarch—one foot firmly on conscience, the other on control. There’s heat in her reprimands, but no nuance. Lines like “You dare assume!” or “Don’t trifle!” fall into volume not emotion. A softer tone might have revealed the nun’s internal conflict; instead, she issues declarations and rebukes, never letting pain slip through.
These discrepancies highlight the central issue: Tilly’s sincerity makes her co-stars’ broad strokes stand out—and not in a complementary way.
3. Dialogue Transposed, Not Transformed
The original play relies on the power of silence, subtext, and charged pauses. The adaptation substitutes theatrical monologues and stilted questioning. While visually opening to cloisters, forest chapels, and hospital corridors, Jewison doesn’t render emotional landscapes, only basic setting.
Lines meant to hurt or reassure get lost in static blocking. Scenes that should unfold as a private war of words feel like overheard lines in a lecture hall. Even near the climax, when Agnes recounts the details, it feels like watching someone recount biblical stories rather than reliving trauma.
4. Pacing That Suffocates Rather Than Suspends
At two hours, Agnes of God feels long. Early court scenes drag with extended testimony. Mid-movie interrogations seem never-ending. The casual, robed presence of Sister Agnes with no editing breath makes the film avalanche into monotony.
Compare this to an effective stage production, where live presence and audience tension provides life. On film, camera work wide-shots on long corridor shots and preacher-style speeches decelerate, not enhance, the pace—and leave viewers staring at their watches by confession time.
5. Visual Elegance That Doesn’t Land Emotionally
Visually, Jewison shoots the convent as monumental: stained glass, white corridors, candlelit chapels. It’s cinematic, but somehow sterile. Everything seems too neat, as if filmed in a museum. Meanwhile, the emotional chaos remains boxed in dialogue.
The snowy twilight courtyard, where murder is first discovered—shot as if seeking mystery—feels staged rather than horrific. Intimacy exists only through content, not camera placement. With proper blocking and editing, scenes could have nestled emotional tension into the architecture—but instead, they linger uselessly.
6. Intimacy Replaced by Distance
In the play, Agnes’s revelation of concealing the infant and her conflicting trust with Livingston is visceral: simple physical proximity, raw emotion, held hands, pressing brows to ears. Here, the adaptation films them like distant co-stars—static wide‑shots, wide chairs, no physical closeness that could harness audience empathy.
This distancing holds back any viewer immersion. Mercy and madness feel intellectualized, not visceral.
7. Symbolism Without Substance
Silver doves, raw milk, ritual drips, and religious verse—all try to fill the spiritual void. But they’re just stage props, not anchors for the audience. Without internalized stakes, these symbols hover, empty. When they should inspire wonder or dread, they slip by unnoticed.
8. Agnes’s Trauma Is Sterilized
Shockingly, the most shocking event—the discovery of the baby, possibly conceived through rape—is framed as courtroom testimony rather than a pivotal scene. Agnes’s body language doesn’t shift. She repeats lines rather than convulses. Its portrayal feels sanitized, not traumatic.
Even tearful admissions are murmured instead of cried into. Without emotional breaks, the climax never truly arrives. Every vote of judgment leaks into neutral condemnation.
9. Emotional Echoes That Fade Quickly
The film teases emotional intimacy—Agnes’s early dancing, her whispers to the crucifix—but never builds on it. Moments that move run thin: a casual glance from Livingston, a simple nunnery hug. If the audience doesn’t connect quickly, we drift through acts without connection. We witness them, not feel them.
10. Meg Tilly Again: A Symptom, Not a Cure
Tilly is a bright spot—no question. But here’s the unfortunate truth: her presence isn’t enough to elevate the work. Despite her compelling performance, the film lacks a central anchor. A galvanizing moment—say, Livingston breaking down, or Mother Miriam showing regret over patrolling robe sins—would have illuminated Agnes’s collapse rather than letting her feel alone in the spotlight.
Instead, Tilly’s Agnes is a brilliantly lit lantern carried through a fog of cinematic inertia.
11. Tone: Commanding Instead of Questioning
The film sets out to ask, “Is Agnes guilty, innocent, or embodying belief?” But the direction feels declarative, not inquisitive. We suspect for a moment—but every scene reasserts perspective rather than debate it. Near the end, when Agnes utters, “It was the first time I felt free,” we want to feel revelation—but instead, it passes like an afterthought.
12. Adaptation Fatigue: Too Many Act Breaks
Listening to Agnes’s story, or hearing a nun’s cross-examination, can still hit. But Jewison recuts far too often—presence switches to outside world, then back to private chambers. The film forgets it’s about girl in trauma, not court politics. The structure breaks immersion: voice-over, then flashback, then debate. Like compressed pieces highlighted, but not connected together emotionally.
13. Modest Score, Limiting Emotion
Dave Grusin’s score is quiet, reflective. Sparse piano, minimal strings. It could’ve given Agnes emotional resonance—but never builds toward anything satisfying. At times, music underscores silence rather than breaking it, telling us tragedy didn’t occur when we wished it would.
14. Final Act: A Whimper Where a Roar Is Missing
In the final exchange—Mother Miriam’s dramatic revelation that Agnes was raped by the doctor—there’s a missed opportunity for emotional conflagration. Fonda gasps theatrically, Bancroft looks stunned—but the camera holds on them like museum statues, not living, breathing people. Agnes looks older, tired, not terrified. Her final fade into hallways feels cold rather than resolute. The film closes, but the emotional conversation died on the vine.
15. Overall Verdict: A Compromised Adaptation
Agnes of God fails to translate stage power into cinematic soul. Its strengths—a brilliant Meg Tilly and compelling premise—aren’t enough to overcome its shortcomings. It fails to live in emotional spaces where cinema thrives: eyes, breaths, unspoken power. Instead, it replays staged speeches beside cathedrals and ends in bored black screen.
Here’s a summary:
| Component | Grade |
|---|---|
| Meg Tilly’s Performance | A |
| Jane Fonda & Anne Bancroft | C |
| Direction & Pacing | D+ |
| Cinematic Adaptation | C− |
| Emotional Impact | C− |
| Overall Verdict | C− |
Would You Still Watch It?
Yes—but only for Tilly. If you’re a fan of religious dramas, this is a minor footnote. If you recall the play fondly, this adaptation may feel too diluted. But if you love Tilly’s presence and want to see her breakthrough into emotionally complex roles—even played against unimpressive cinematic choices—there is some value here. Watch it not as a masterpiece, but as a haunting cameo by a rising star trapped in a flawed vessel.
