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The King's Speech
Mrs H and I had the good fortune to accompany Captain & Mrs Tom to a screening of the King's Speech last night. Modestly funded by the imperiled UK Film Council the picture boasts a stellar cast. Colin Firth and Geofferey Rush joust affably for the lead, ably supported by Helena Bonham Carter (an astute and engaging Queen Mum), Michael Gambon (a suitably irrascible George V), Guy Pearce (instantly dislikable as the recalcetrant heir), Timothy Spall (a brave Churchill) and the acting pheonomenon, born in 2001 (yes, 2001), Outnumbered's magnificently precocious Ramona Marquez as Princess Margaret. Throw in Derek Jacobi as the ruffled Archbishop and you have a veritable Who's Who of British acting talent.
The writing is sublime, from the opening as 'Bertie' walks to the microphone to speak to a packed Wembley much as a man condemned might shuffle reluctantly to the gallows, to a closing scene wracked with unbearable tension. Your heart goes out to Firth; the man looks genuinely haunted as he struggles with his inner demons and. latterly, the inhuman responsibility on his frail shoulders. Rush dances and weaves, a benign Maciavelli dropping pearls of humour and wisdom in equal measure, cajoling, bullying, steering our once and future king towards his destiny. There's remarkable candour here. The courtiers, and in particular David and Mrs Simpson, receive short shrift, painted as selfish socialites with little regard for the consequences of their indulgent actions even as storm clouds loom over Europe.
When you consider the importance of the titular speech, the potential impact of a poorly-delivered broadcast from a monarch on the cusp of war, you realise just what hangs on the outcome of his titanic struggle. There was no Sky News tickertape in 1939, no ubiquitous rolling news, no Twitter, just large groups of people huddled around the wireless hanging on the every word of respected leaders broadcasting to the nation.
At the end of last night's performance I felt an overwhelming desire to applaud. To my surprise and relief several people in the packed cinema did so. I joined in as did many others before the accolade faultered and died away, as if this very British audience were embarassed by such an overt display of emotion. How apt.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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