‘What is that? A turkey?’: The reviews of the Vatican nativity are in, and they’re not so good

A couple stand in front of the Vatican’s new Christmas nativity scene in St Peter’s Square, trying to understand exactly what they are looking at.

The three wise men, life-size and cylindrical, looked as if constructed from ceramic oil drums. Joseph and Mary, likewise torpedo-shaped, seemed like enormous, Bible-themed Weebles. Two enigmatic, totemic figures stood in the middle of the platform. One held a shield and a decorative spear and had for a head what appeared to be an overturned caldron, carved like an angry Halloween Jack-O-Lantern. The other wore an astronaut’s helmet and held the cratered moon in its hands.

“That one there?” Giorgio Banti, 71, asks his wife, Anita, as they gaze at the figures on a recent morning. She shrugs and reads the informational poster. “First landing on the moon.”

Every year, the Vatican unveils a different nativity scene, usually donated by an Italian town, to be displayed next to the ancient obelisk in the centre of St Peter’s Square. Last year’s artists sculpted the holy family, the Magi, angels and donkeys out of 720 tons of beach sand. In 2016, the display featured a Maltese fishing boat to evoke the travails of refugees. The one in 2017 highlighted works of mercy with a man visiting a prison cell and another burying a shrouded body, complete with a dangling pale arm.

This year the Vatican went in another direction, towards Castelli, a town in the Abruzzo region of central-eastern Italy known for centuries for its ceramics.

Between 1965 and 1975, students and teachers at a local art school there sought to revive that tradition by using ancient coiling techniques – rings of ceramic stacked in sections like marble columns – to create more than 50 Christmas-themed figures. They graced Rome’s Trajan’s Market in 1970, and made it to Jerusalem in 1976. They survived earthquakes in 2009 and 2016, and a bad snowstorm in 2017.

Finally, this year, they made it to the big show, the “churchyard of Christianity”, as the creche’s official description put it.

The reviews haven’t been so hot.

“It’s hideous,” says Anita Banti, who looks at the ceramic menagerie of animals – chicks that look like fallen meteorites, a camel made of ceramic cubes – with horror. “Why do they have that one with the horns?” she asks. “What is that? A turkey?”

That critique has been amplified by conservatives who see in the ceramic figures a further erosion of church traditions and customary images they hold dear.

“The Vatican’s Embarrassing SciFi Creche,” read a headline in the conservative Catholic Herald, which like many conservative outlets and commentators, condemned the creche. “One figure was often described as looking like Darth Vader,” wrote the article’s author, who then upped the nerd ante. “Though to me he looks more like a Sontaran from Doctor Who.”

Giorgio Banti, a university professor, thinks his wife and all the conservative critics are missing the point. He sought to provide more historical context.

“What history?” his wife interrupts.

“Would you let me finish?” he says. “I didn’t interrupt you.”

His wife walked off in a huff while he explained that he remembered this style of ceramics from his youth; that it was of a time and a place when the moon landings dominated the secular and religious imagination; and that these harmless figures did not deserve all the insults they were getting in the philistine Italian press, with some writers even suggesting something demonic could be afoot.

“They could be ugly, or it could be beautiful,” he says. “But it’s not satanic!”

“Satanic?” asks Annamaria Zeppa, a retired schoolteacher, who wore a beret and leant on a single ski pole as she stood a few feet away. She was looking at a ceramic figure, maybe an angel, blowing a trumpet that looked like a fruit roll-up. “What does satanic have to do with it?”

For some traditionalist conservatives, everything. But they also tend to criticise Pope Francis for an overzealous spirit of inclusion that has opened the church’s doors to relativism and, more literally, fertility statues, which some conservatives threw in the Tiber.

Francis, who has shown an interest in space exploration, also seems willing to push the creche limits. Last year, he issued a document, “Admirable Signum”, in which he defended a more open-minded approach to the nativity scene.

“Children – but adults too! – often love to add to the nativity scene other figures that have no apparent connection with the Gospel accounts,” he wrote.

The late footballer Diego Maradona has been a fixture in the mangers of creche-crazy Naples for decades. This year, that city’s artisans made a manger scene out of pizza dough.

Maradona and pizza is one thing. But Sixties-era ceramics arts is apparently beyond the pale.

“Post-Modern Vatican Nativity Scene Provokes Wave of Criticism,” complained a headline in the National Catholic Register, another home of conservative dissent during the Francis pontificate. It bemoaned “20 modernistic ceramic objects”, including “a morbid, satanic-looking executioner”.

Art historians popular in the Vatican’s conservative circles also considered the creche an unnecessary insult to the injury of a plague year.

“It has been a dark year and many have had their faith challenged,” art historian Elizabeth Lev told Breitbart News’s Rome correspondent, who is also her husband. “Perhaps it would have been better to give them a symbol to rally round rather than an object of mockery.”

“The misshapen figures in the nativity scene,” she continued, “lack all the grace, proportion, vulnerability and luminosity that one looks for in the manger scene.”

Gazing at the creche, Maria Letizia Panerai, 58, says the ceramic figures were just what she was looking for in a manger scene.

“I like it because these are not traditional times and we don’t need a traditional nativity scene,” she says. “It’s representative of our anomalous age. It’s disconcerting, but this is a disconcerting year.”

“The only thing I don’t understand is that astronaut,” she adds. “And that sort of monster behind him.”

“I see,” her mother, Argia, 84, agrees, squinting through sunglasses.

“How can you say you see?” she tells her mother. “You can’t see a thing.”

The daughter adds that she saw nothing offensive about the creche. The adjacent Slovenian spruce that dwarfed it in the square was another matter.

“What’s ugly is that tree,” she says.

“Shaggy,” agrees her mother.

The Vatican at first mounted a less than vigorous defense of its tree and nativity scene. (“The life-size ceramic statues hold a cultural heritage not immediately visible to the eye,” suggested Vatican News, its official news outlet.)

But last Saturday, Francis came to the rescue of both the conifer and the creche.

“The Christmas tree and the nativity scene are signs of hope, especially in this difficult time,” Francis wrote on Twitter. “Let us be sure we do not stop at the sign, but get to the meaning.”

Some Romans had already seemed to be coming around to it.

“It’s particular,” Marianna Sebastiani, 38, says, charitably, as she looked at Joseph and Mary flanking the baby Jesus, who will be cloaked until Christmas Eve with a red tarp. “The ones that leave me a little perplexed are the astronauts. But they made this when man went to the moon, so it has something to do with progress I think.”

Cristina Massari, 52, a guide in Rome, also says it wasn’t as bad as she had expected, given all the negative coverage. Plus, in the year of the epidemic, she appreciated that there was something otherworldly, but also empathetic, about a creche that had endured natural disasters and scorn.

“It’s a nativity scene that has had problems, like we’ve all had a lousy year,” she says. “If it made it, we can.”

© The New York Times