Stephen Frears
The Queen

Perhaps there is only one country in the world where even the most die-hard anti-monarchists—those with common sense, that is; the stupid ones don't count—would leave the royals alone, if not actually respect them. That country is England. Explaining the reason is a task for historians more versed than I am in English history, but for those who want to "feel" the respect that the English monarchy commands without asking for it, from its subjects who naturally have it for them, this film is the shortest and most thrilling way. We probably wouldn't be discussing it if Helen Mirren hadn't played the queen, in a memorable acting performance. Usually, it only takes a glance to literally reveal the trick when we see an actor (a mediocre one) trying to mimic a historical figure and ending up, nine times out of ten, just ridiculing it. In this case, Mirren is fabulous, with her make-up seemingly absorbed into her somatic features, and she embodies the character with complete ease, giving it such depth that it appears more real than real. The role she was entrusted with required her to condense into a ninety-minute film—which is not entirely dedicated to the queen, but to the royal family in general and to the Blair family more specifically—the evolution of Elizabeth II's state of mind during the week of Diana's death. As the queen is a very reserved woman and apparently cold and distant, this change had to take place within the strict limits of the sovereign's own nature. All of this, of course, to the greater glory of Mirren, who indeed managed to communicate the emotion that from time to time stirred the queen's heart, from beneath that insensitive wax mask that has always characterized her. Through her eyes. Just look at the queen's gaze at the beginning of the film, when she confidently welcomes new Prime Minister Tony Blair to the royal palace, and compare it with the one she has in the last scene when she meets Blair at the end of the fiery summer of 1997, to understand how much Helen Mirren deserved the Volpi Cup (first) and the Oscar (then).

Peter Morgan is the author of the screenplay and has not concealed that he wrote it while thinking rather poorly of the queen. But the film is all in favor of Elizabeth II, unless I have wanted to grasp the supposed ambiguity of the direction or the hidden satire between the lines of the screenplay. Today, critics compete to make the most original and surprising analysis (analyses that often go beyond the intentions of the director himself), when it would be better if they replaced so much intelligence with a dash of sensitivity. Stephen Frears' name might mislead the viewer who has seen some of his films and roughly knows his ideas (it seems impossible that he is the same director of "Sammy and Rosie Get Laid"). But instead, as I already said at the beginning, there is no surprise that Frears has created a portrait of his queen that is not caustic at all, as one might have thought, if anything slightly satirical, but the targets are the supporting characters: Cherie, a dull and silly anti-monarchist, Blair's wicked press officer, Prince Philip, the shy and impressionable Charles, the crowd (a real character) that only wants "glamour and tears". But never the queen. Not even in the juiciest occasions, such as when the camera follows her private family moments. And yet some critic has sensed the real intention of Frears, cleverly hidden under metaphor and behind thick curtains of appearances. Why? Why complicate life to discover (or rather invent) never-trodden paths. To earn the wit license and live off its income? The only metaphor that exists is simple and meaningful. In the days following Diana's death, pressured by Tony Blair to return from Balmoral, where she is on vacation, to London and join the widespread mourning for the death of the "people's princess", Elizabeth II gets stuck with her off-road vehicle in the middle of a ford, alone. While waiting for help, she bursts into tears. It's the first time she is alone and perhaps she remembers Tony Blair's words: one in four subjects, in those days, wants to abolish the monarchy.

It's not simple wounded pride, nor compassion for Diana, nor even sadness for the grandchildren. It is centuries of history and responsibility that weigh on her shoulders; it's the personal drama of losing her father George VI, who died of cancer after deciding not to leave London during the bombings (Freud used to say cancer is the last refuge of neurosis); the fear of no longer being up to her role in changed times. The crowd doesn't care about these nuances; it wants a queen who interprets its mood and perhaps indulges it. What newspapers (not just the tabloids anymore) do with consummate experience. We have an example at hand. Try opening the internet page of the Corriere della Sera and you'll see that the top news concerns the further developments of the Pavia murder investigation. Then open the internet page of the Times and you'll see the photo of the silent and magnificent popular protest in Burma displayed prominently. End of parentheses.

The queen bursts into tears when an imperial stag appears on the hill and distracts her. She is enchanted by the animal, hunted by hunters and yet proud and Olympian. When she hears the hounds barking, she scares it away to make it flee, wipes away her tears, and recomposes herself. Clear metaphor, isn't it?

"The Queen" is a beautiful film about our times, about a woman who, too early, was given an ungrateful task and about her matriarchal family, populated by eccentrics (to use a euphemism), not least that girl with doe eyes who too often exhibited "glamour and tears". And let's not be surprised when the queen only lets herself be carried away by affection for her lovely corgis (Dogs! she calls them with an affection she doesn't reserve for any of her family, and the mask of royal seriousness breaks to make way for an expression of joy), because, as the Prince teaches: "The more I know men, the more I love beasts".