Here is a bizarre contradiction: the
year’s biggest West End theatrical opening so far actually has
disconcertingly little to do with theatre. Peter Morgan has solid form
as a writer of recent-historical dramas for both stage and screen (
The Deal,
Frost/Nixon); it is Stephen
Daldry’s first return to directing on a London stage since the 2005
stage première of
Billy Elliot The
Musical; Helen Mirren is now seen all too rarely on the boards,
and here is supported by a phalanx of stage names including Richard
McCabe, Haydn Gwynne and Paul Ritter. But that’s the very point: we are
not going to this production (as we will inevitably go, in droves) to
see a depiction of the Queen’s weekly meetings with the various Prime
Ministers of her reign, an assortment of character sketches and
discreet musings upon the tension between high office and the
individual holding it. No, we will go to see Mirren, directed by
Daldry, playing the Queen, and so forth.
To be sure, Mirren is excellent, whizzing through a series of onstage
quick-changes in which the years (up to 60 of them) are donned and
doffed as easily as what Her Majesty at one point calls her “eccentric
costume”. She (and Morgan’s script) catches well what we think we know
of the dry royal humour, often gently withering but never malicious. Of
her Prime Ministers, Richard McCabe stands out as Harold Wilson,
beginning as a rumbustious class warrior (implausible as it is for
Buckingham Palace to put a former Oxford don in such awe) but mellowing
to a relationship of mutual banter and even, at the end, personal
confidence. Edward Fox is a natural Harold Macmillan, but since
Macmillan is not in this play (nor are Alec Douglas Home, Edward Heath
nor, surprisingly, Tony Blair) he gives his best shot as Winston
Churchill, replacing the suddenly indisposed Robert Hardy. Fox works
hard to catch the great man, but in any conflict with the actor’s
natural manner Churchill tends to come off second. John Major also
excels – what unlikely words! – in Paul Ritter’s performance. More
onstage time than any Prime Minister is occupied by Young Elizabeth (on
press night, an assured Nell Williams), in dialogue with her older self
as personifying the person and the monarch respectively.
I could, in my too-frequent cavilling mode, cite a raft of verbal
anachronisms and protocol howlers that you could drive the Gold State
Coach through, but... much as the production would like to flatter
itself to the contrary... accuracy is not what matters. What matters is
the event. They should play the National Anthem at curtain-call to both
compel and legitimise a standing ovation.
Written for the Financial
Times.