“It was a sad story and it wasn’t of much interest to me.”
Those are the words Cardinal George Pell used when told a child had been raped. Sit with that. Not disputed. Not misquoted. Not torn from context. A child was raped, and the most powerful Catholic in Australia reacted with the moral engagement of someone hearing the pub had run out of wedges.
From there, everything in “The Prince: Faith, Abuse and George Pell” follows with an awful, inexorable logic.
I’ve hated George Pell for as long as I’ve been aware of him. A loathsome creature. This book lands squarely in the sweet spot of my biases, then goes further and earns every one of them. Add the morally bankrupt Catholic Church, its vile patrons like Bob Santamaria, a hose of Murdoch cronies running interference, and the satisfaction is grim and complete. Not entertainment. Exposure. The relief that comes when rot finally hits air.
Marr does not rant. He does not froth. He vivisects. With the calm precision of someone gutting a fish, he opens Pell and the institution that shielded him, and the guts just keep coming. Marr writes like a man sharpening a blade, steady, methodical, absolutely ready to cut through bullshit. The facts do the work. They are so rancid they stink on their own.
What disgusts most is the industrial-strength cowardice. Decades of child abuse hidden like dirty laundry by men who claimed moral authority while behaving like a cartel. Protect the Church. Protect the predators. Protect the money. Let the kids fend for themselves. Survivors were handed pennies while Pell spent like a Renaissance prince on robes, buildings, wine, and his Roman digs. The obscenity of that contrast never dulls.
Marr’s psychological excavation is genuinely bracing. He digs into Pell’s interior life like someone forcing open a locked cellar door and finding something damp and twitching inside. This is the portrait of a man who appears to have cauterised his own emotional life in the name of celibacy, a self-lobotomised rule-enforcer who mistakes repression for virtue. Marr even gives Pell credit where it is due, which only sharpens the blade. This is not hysteria. It is earned.
The Australian context matters, and Marr names it without flinching. Our legal quirks helped turn the Church into a fortress for predators, a sanctuary for the sanctimonious. Governments, police, and politicians repeatedly folded like wet cardboard, effectively joining the cover-up choir. This was not just ecclesiastical failure. It was a systemic collapse of nerve.
The historical sweep is one of the book’s quieter strengths. Pell’s rise is not treated as an aberration but as the logical outcome of a long lineage of clerical power and institutional rot. The Church did not lose its way. It followed its incentives with chilling consistency.
The material is so bleak it feels like reading with your head in a bucket of bleach, but that is the subject, not the craft. Some readers will need to pause to scream into the void. Again, that is the Church’s legacy, not Marr’s prose. You could argue for more theory, a wider net, but Marr’s focus is a scalpel, not a shotgun, and he uses it with lethal care.
This essay should be mandatory reading for anyone still muttering “bad apples” while standing in an orchard crawling with rot and worms. Anyone still equivocating about Pell or the Church’s record should read this and sit with the rage it provokes. Properly. Without flinching.
I finished this shaken, exhausted, and furious in a low, steady way. Not the release of a rant, but the kind of anger that settles in the bones and refuses to move. This is essential journalism. A quiet detonation that leaves your moral compass rattling.
Four-and-a-half stars. The fifth is withheld only because the harm is bottomless, and no book, however forensic, could ever exhaust it. That absence is not a failure of Marr’s work. It is the final indictment of the institution he dissects.