There are films. There are masterpieces. And then there is Nacho Libre, a cinematic event so spiritually profound, so morally rigorous, that it dares to ask a central question of Western civilization: Can a friar rightly enter the wrestling ring?

Directed by Jared Hess — the man responsible for the similarly brilliant Napoleon Dynamite — and carried on the capable shoulders of Jack Black, Nacho Libre is often mistaken for a comedy. In reality, it is a sustained meditation on Just War Theory — to be watched with “the Lord’s chips.”

Jack Black’s Ignacio (nicknamed “Nacho”) is a monastery cook in Oaxaca who longs for glory in the wrestling ring. But “beneath the man” lies a moral crisis worthy of Thomas Aquinas: Is it just for a man of the cloth to engage in ritualized violence? Can bodyslams be morally licit if ordered toward charity and the glory of the Lord? These are not trivial questions. These are the questions.

The classical Just War Theory criteria hovers over every suplex. Just cause? The orphans are hungry. The monastery’s culinary output resembles damp cardboard with a side of slop. Nacho comes to realize that he must not wrestle for vanity (though he enjoys the cape). He ultimately wrestles to secure funds for the children, so that they can have “a big bus,” and visit places they could not otherwise see. One could hardly imagine a clearer case of right intention. His cause is not one of conquest, but one of blessings for the vulnerable.

Legitimate authority? Here the plot thickens. Nacho operates in secret, concealing his alter-ego from the monastic hierarchy. This raises thorny ecclesiological concerns. Is a wrestling vocation valid without prior approval from the abbot? Or does the urgency of orphan hunger constitute a different kind of authorization — one that comes from Scripture itself? The film refuses easy answers, forcing viewers into sober moral reflection while a man in a multicolored mask performs the “anaconda squeeze” maneuver.

Last resort? Nacho does attempt incremental reform. He desperately tries to improve the food. He pleads, in his own passionate way, for resources so that he may achieve excellence in his cooking. But when diplomacy fails — when he is denied resources — and the soup remains tragic, escalation becomes inevitable. The ring is not his first choice; it is his final appeal.

Even proportionality is at stake. Are the bruises, concussions and public humiliations proportionate to the good achieved? The film suggests yes — though not without cost. Nacho’s early defeats are not triumphant crusades but painful reminders that even just causes require competence — a “reasonable chance of success,” to use Just War Theory language. One cannot simply declare moral high ground while being totally destroyed by “Satan’s Helpers.”

And then there is Ramses — the champion with the physique not unlike that of a Greek god, a kind of shimmering Goliath. “Ramses is number one.” Nacho’s confrontation with him transcends sport. It becomes eschatological. The question is not merely who wins, but whether virtue, formed through suffering and disciplined training, can stand against charisma and raw dominance, giving glory to God in the public square. The final bout is less WWE than City of God, clothed in “stretchy pants.”

Jack Black’s performance anchors the entire moral enterprise. His Nacho is ridiculous yet sincere, vain yet charitable, cowardly yet brave. He embodies what the tradition has always known: that moral formation is messy. Sanctification sometimes involves a training montage. His whispered prayers before matches are as earnest as any liturgy — only sweatier and certainly more breathless.

The genius of Nacho Libre lies in its refusal to mock the stakes. Yes, there are “eagle powers.” Yes, there is an awkward moment where Nacho eats garlic bread with a nun, in complete silence. Yes, there is an armed confrontation, settled by weaponized corn-on-the-cob. But the laughter never undercuts the seriousness of Nacho’s dilemma. Can violence be redeemed by faith-based purpose? Can spectacle serve mercy? Can a man both cook and conquer?

By the end, Nacho does not become a conqueror in the imperial sense. He becomes something better: a protector who has passed through humiliation into humility. The ring, once an arena of ego, becomes a site of self-sacrifice. Justice, in a decidedly rotund form, is achieved.

Critics in 2006 may have missed it, but time has revealed the truth. Nacho Libre is not simply a comedy. It is a masterclass in applied moral theology. It is Jack Black at the height of his powers. It is Aquinas in a cape.

Just cause. Unresolved questions. Right intention. Proper attire. Five stars.