I openly claim authorship of the expression "Leo Code", an interpretive attempt to explain one of the most fascinating, complex, and least understood pontificates in recent Church history. Although still in its early stages, this pontificate is already among the most compelling, not least because of its protagonist: Pope Leo XIV himself. Like his two predecessors, he shares a common fate—being heavily criticized. In his case, however, he is particularly criticized in the United States and largely misunderstood in Italy.
The Leo Code was born as a way to interpret a climate marked by the growth of ecclesial conspiracy thinking, which objectively flourished during the pontificate of Pope Francis and was further fueled by the—arguably irrational—decision of Benedict XVI to resign. That historic choice opened the door to continuous manipulation by conservative circles, especially in the United States. Pope Leo has inherited this poisoned environment and now faces an extraordinarily difficult pontificate, marked by what is effectively an American schism, driven by Catholic groups influenced by radicalized strands of the Reformation tradition.
It is within this framework that a seemingly marginal but deeply revealing element must be read: Pope Leo XIV's declaration of his cinematic passions. In a video message addressed to the world of cinema, he recently shared four films that are particularly meaningful to him: It's a Wonderful Life (1946), The Sound of Music (1965), Ordinary People (1980), and Life Is Beautiful (1997). These films differ widely in era and style, yet they are united by a clear thematic thread: hope, human failure, responsibility, suffering, and rebirth.
Among them, two titles stand out as especially central to understanding the Leo Code: Ordinary People and It's a Wonderful Life. The former, set in the northern United States, is deeply rooted in a Puritan cultural context, where social judgment and outward appearance outweigh authentic inner life. The film portrays a bourgeois society incapable of confronting pain, imprisoned by convention, ultimately leading to the collapse of family relationships. There is no truly happy ending—only a harsh, understated condemnation of a dehumanizing social model.
It's a Wonderful Life, by contrast, represents social Christianity at its finest. George Bailey is not a hero in the traditional sense but an ordinary man who consistently sacrifices himself for the common good. He saves lives, builds affordable housing, and protects the vulnerable from a predatory economic system embodied by the greedy banker Henry F. Potter. Significantly, the film contains no explicitly Catholic elements. The Bailey family is portrayed as Episcopalian, reflecting a tradition deeply engaged in the Social Gospel movement and in social reform.
This aspect did not go unnoticed by the FBI, which at one point opened a file on the film, suspecting it of communist propaganda. An internal memo criticized the portrayal of Potter as a villainous banker, claiming that such representation was a common communist tactic. The film remained under suspicion until 1956. Here, cinema intersects directly with Pope Leo's social teaching.
In his 2025 Christmas homily at St. Peter's Basilica, Pope Leo XIV declared: "A distorted economy leads us to treat human beings as commodities. God becomes like us, revealing the infinite dignity of every person." Henry F. Potter is the cinematic embodiment of that distorted economy; George Bailey, by contrast, represents an economy rooted in solidarity and human dignity.
What is particularly striking is that the two films most essential to Pope Leo's vision are not Catholic in a confessional sense, yet they are profoundly Christian. Ordinary People is grounded in Puritan ethics—discipline, moral responsibility, interior struggle, and silence. It's a Wonderful Life reflects the Episcopalian tradition, historically committed to social justice, racial equality, housing rights, employment, and public welfare.
At first glance, this choice may seem incongruous for the head of the Catholic Church. In reality, it is remarkably coherent. Through the symbolic language of cinema, Pope Leo issues an ecumenical appeal regarding the social responsibility of Christians. Puritanism emphasizes the coherence between faith and daily life, the idea of vocation, and personal accountability within society. Episcopalianism highlights collective responsibility, social reform, and the inherent dignity of every human being created in the image of God.
This synthesis lies at the heart of the Leo Code. It is a pontificate that is unmediated and restrained, intentionally non-spectacular—silent in the Puritan sense—yet deeply social and attentive to structural injustice, as demanded by the Episcopalian ethical tradition. It is a pontificate that speaks less but acts more, that avoids media theatrics in favor of concrete, transformative engagement with reality.
Pope Leo XIV thus emerges as a mature Catholic synthesis of two major Christian traditions of modernity. This is not a concession but a deliberate theological and pastoral integration. In an age marked by polarization, ideological warfare, and latent schism, his message is clear: Christianity, before being an identity to defend, is a social responsibility to be lived.
And perhaps it is precisely for this reason that Pope Leo's pontificate appears so fascinating—and yet so profoundly misunderstood.
Marco Baratto
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