One will make up one’s own mind, thank you

Picture: Netflix

You would have thought - given the global pandemic - that Her Majesty's Government would have a little less time on their hands to get involved in things that really don't, frankly, need their involvement. But that hasn’t stopped Oliver Dowden, the squeaky-voiced Secretary of State for Digital, Culture, Media and Sport, who is also a Cabinet minister, from calling on The Crown to carry a ‘health warning’ to make clear that the series is a fictionalised account of life within the House of Windsor.

No sooner had I posted here on Saturday about how The Crown is just a glorious dramatisation of supposed real events and, in essence, is largely a posh version of Dallas or Dynasty, than Dowden told the Mail On Sunday (who else?): “I fear a generation of viewers who did not live through these events may mistake fiction for fact”, adding that while the show was a “beautifully produced work of fiction”, it “should be very clear at the beginning it is just that”. He is planning to write to Neflix to express his concerns further. Environment secretary George Eustice - this morning’s government stooge on the breakfast shows - even added to Dowden’s remarks when asked about them by Sky’s Kay Burley: “It is a very good drama, but it is a drama,” he said, adding that while the show was “clearly based on true events in our recent history” it was clear that it contained “colourful depictions” based on fact. While not the most explicit endorsement of his colleague’s comments, it was starting to sound like a government line. That in itself is a worry. Why should any minister have a view about something so obviously entertainment, while elsewhere there's a deadly virus on the loose and an economic meltdown and rising unemployment resulting from it? It wouldn't have anything to do with a backbench revolt over the tiering system, would it?

Picture: Netflix

If, though, The Crown is, now, a matter of highest importance for HMG, I strongly suggest that Dowden drops the BBC a note asking them to make clear that EastEnders isn’t a fly-on-the-wall series about a Cockerney community in working class London. And while he's at it, a missive should be on its way to ITV asking it to make clear that Emmerdale isn’t about real farming folk. Perhaps, too, an e-mail to Disney to have them clarify that The Mandalorian is, in fact, a drama about a bounty hunter in a galaxy far, far away, and not a hard-hitting documentary about life five years after the end of the facist Galactic Empire in Return Of The Jedi. Which also wasn’t real.

Inevitably, Twitter has piled on. “The Culture Secretary’s ‘intervention’ over The Crown is the funniest thing I've heard in ages,” said one tweet. “Netflix already tells people that The Crown is fiction. It’s billed as a drama. Those people in it are actors. I know! Blows your mind,” said another. One tweet ranted: “I just don’t know where to start with Oliver Dowden using his full powers of headed notepaper to demand Netflix proclaim The Crown is fiction, but maybe a trip round the back of the flat screen to check there aren’t little people living there.”

Understandably, those involved in The Crown have been defending the latest season which, unlike the first three, seems to be closer to contemporary sensitivities because it focuses on a period of history played out in the media unlike any before it. That aside, Series 4 is no different to Series 1-3. Showrunner Peter Morgan has happily described its fictionalised account of real-life events as a "constant push-pull" between research and drama. Josh O'Connor, who plays Prince Charles in the latest run, told the BBC: "Sometimes people will want to believe this is what happened. It's always worth checking in and remembering that we're actors, we're not real and it's not a real story.” 

This hasn’t stopped former royal correspondents from piling in: Dickie Arbiter, the onetime Independent Radio News royal correspondent who became the Buckingham Palace press secretary, has branded the show’s fourth series a “hatchet job” on both Charles and Diana, whose ill-fated marriage forms the series' core theme, along with the Thatcher premiership. Its depiction of C&D's travails stretched “dramatic licence to the extreme”, Arbiter has said. Even ex-BBC royal correspondent Jennie Bond has said she feared some viewers might treat the show "as a documentary".

The real worry, for me, is who the likes of Dowden (right) are trying to address with these comments. There’s an implied suggestion that some Netflix viewers are stupid, because they’ve also watched Selling Sunset and The Tiger King (as have I, and never once mistook them for fiction). Worse was that Dowden enraged the Mail On Sunday which, together with its rival the Daily Express, maintains a scary, mad-person-wearing-head-to-toe-Union-Jack obsession with the royals and, even 23 years after her death, Diana. “Viewers of this series,” it thundered yesterday, in total agreement with Dowden, “should never be in any doubt that what they are seeing is dramatic invention by Left-wing persons who do not in fact much like the institution or the family they pretend to portray.” 

Er, right. Let me refer the right-honourable gentleman to my remarks earlier in this post about EastEnders, Emmerdale and the Star Wars universe. They’re not all that deferential to the institutions they portray, either, but no-one’s going to think that there’s a London borough called Walford, and Phil Mitchell has been able to last 30 years as its resident alcoholic thug.  

Games of thrones: The Crown and other guilty pleasures

Picture: Netflix

So, it’s happened. I’m embracing pop culture in a manner I hadn’t previously thought I would. Full disclosure - I recently bought Kylie Minogue’s new album, DISCO, on the strength of reviews, and absolutely love it. Likewise, I ordered Paloma Faith’s new release Infinite Things purely because of her performing the corking breakout single Gold on The Jonathan Ross Show. Both purchases were made ‘on behalf’ of my girlfriend as gifts to her, but I've cast a sneaky ear to both quite shamelessly. More than once. Similarly, Steps were on BBC Breakfast yesterday morning doing their new single, and I actually quite liked it. Yes. Steps. WTAF? 

The trouble is that recent months have levelled many things up. We’ve craved comfort. My television consumption has changed out of all recognition, though this is partly to do with moving in with a partner and her teenage daughters back in February, shortly before The Plague descended. In stark comparison to my single life, watching repeats of ancient Mock The Week episodes and Cop Car Workshop marathons on Dave, I have now been introduced to Bakeoff, Masterchef, Gogglebox and something quite queasy called Naked Attraction. It’s not that I have an aversion to reality, it’s just that I’ve always preferred escape. Living on my own, and assuming Dave wasn’t showing an evening of old Would I Lie To You? episodes, I’d dip into the Bond movie collection, or something of that ilk. Now, amid my new family life, we’ve blown through Selling Sunset and The Tiger King, shows I wouldn’t have hitherto watched in a thousand years based on synopsis alone. Similarly, BBC1’s engrossing Ambulance fly-on-the-wall series about London's emergency responders would have been too much reality. But watched it we did. Every single episode. And it was good.

As the pandemic dragged through the months, and a warm spring begat a hot summer before sinking into a wet autumn, with lockdown coming, going, and returning once more, we have, as a nation, sought comfort in our tellyboxes. We have consumed things not out of intellectual fulfilment, but not out of mindless amusement either. Well, not all the time. I have, though, surprised myself with what I’ve actually been happy to indulge. Case in point: The Crown. I normally find biopics about people with whom I’m familiar uncomfortable, largely because I’m somewhat retentive and pick holes in any attempt to appropriate real individuals I somewhat know about. Thus, I struggled with Bohemian Rhapsody because I knew most of the stories already and didn’t see the need for actors - as good as Rami Malek was as Freddie Mercury - retelling them. And from the same director (Dexter Fletcher), Eddie The Eagle gave a mildly amusing account of Edwards’ story, although Rocketman at least sought to get under Elton John’s skin. But I still can’t help sitting there going “That wouldn’t have been like that!” or “He wouldn’t have said that!”, and similar such pedantry. Actually, all of this applies to just about every and any rock biopic you care to mention (and the less said about the Bowie effort, Stardust, the better...).

The Crown, on the other hand, has presented a very different dilemma. The British royal family are, arguably, one of the world’s most written about, scrutinised and gossiped over institutions. Even if you’re not particularly interested in royalty, you will have found it hard to avoid them. If you’re British, Her Maj the Q is on the front of every stamp and the back of every coin. And at age 94 not-out, Elizabeth II has transcended generations since she became sovereign at the age of 25. Her extended family, for good or for bad, remains the most photographed on the planet. There’s little we don’t know about the royals, and what we don’t gets confected by the press and so-called royal watchers as supposed fact. 

So, quite what Peter Morgan’s dramatisation of the Queen’s reign opens up is subject to question. High question. And yet the sumptuous Netflix series has been the ultimate lockdown comfort food. You know Princess Anne would never call her elder brother “Eeyore” out of mockery in real life, as she does in one episode, but it's a delicious thought (actually, the princess recently admitted in a TV interview for her 70th birthday that she had watched early episodes of The Crown and found them "quite interesting", though had not seen any more recent. That notwithstanding, she's the only royal known to have seen any of the series, a reminder that Anne has probably been the coolest of the Queen's offspring, though the competitive field for that title is not too broad...).

I have been in Prince Charles’ company on two occasions: in the first - for a speech he gave at Clarence House on climate change - he was exactly as you’ve seen him on television, sharing his thoughts on one of his genuine passions. The humour was light and somewhat contrived, and apart from being heir to the throne, he could have been any corporate executive doing a thing about a thing. 

The second occasion was at the COP-15 environment conference in Copenhagen, at which, as part of a delegation from a corporate sponsor of one of the PoW's worthy initiatives, I stood behind two of my then-company’s middle managers as they jostled for prominence as Charles - accompanied by a vast entourage (lackeys, media people and even his own camera crew) passed along a line, making vacuous small talk. I felt sympathy for him. The price of progressing his pet causes is a daily round of palm-greasing with people he wouldn’t otherwise have time for, while dropping carefully timed bon mots for mild amusement. On neither occasion did I find Charles morose or eccentric, or any of the other barbs aimed at him. But, then, these brief encounters hardly make me an authority.

This raises questions about how much The Crown has faithfully documented the House of Windsor’s dysfunctions over the last 70-odd years, or whether the show is simply a posh version of Dallas or Dynasty (which could have been its alternative title, now I think of it). The truth probably lies somewhere between the two. We have just burned through Series 4 with unbridled enthusiasm, almost to the point of addiction at squeezing in another before bedtime (how box sets should be consumed). After the first two seasons chronicled Elizabeth’s accession and adjustment to becoming sovereign so young, and in a post-war empire, too, with all its political, social and cultural upheavals, the third gave more prominence to the young Charles trying to find his way in the world against the backdrop of Britain’s place in the 1960s and 1970s. Series 4, however, has been the most anticipated so far, ever since Series 3 ended with the mouthwatering prospect of what the next would tackle. 

Firstly, the fourth season has entered the era my age group grew up in, the 1980s, and secondly, it was when the media landscape changed out of all recognition. The Fourth Estate became a different beast entirely in the 1980s: a more deferential press towards the establishment gave way to a more oikish press (no coincidence that a republican Australian owned The Sun, News Of The World, the now defunct Today and even The Times stable). This intertwines, in alternative waves, with the two core elements of The Crown’s fourth season: the marriage of Charles and Diana, and the premiership of Margaret Thatcher. 

I couldn’t ever say I’ve been that bothered about the royals. I’ve got nothing against them and quite like their presence in the national fabric, but I recall the saga of Charles and Diana, played out in the press (and not just the tabloids, either…) for what seemed like the entire decade, as tiresome. Equally, I would happily confess a loathing of Thatcher, no matter what the perceived conclusions might be of her tenure at No.10. I was at secondary school for most of her time in office (she was elected just after I took - unsuccessfully - my 11-plus), and my view of her was coloured, I’ll admit, by the influence of proto-typical, Lada-driving lefty teachers. The Crown’s depiction of her divisiveness is framed through background themes like South Africa, the Falklands War and the miners' strike. Even social injustices, vicariously through the episode of royal intruder Michael Fagan, supposedly discussing them with HRHtQ in her bedroom, brought back many raw memories from my teenage years, and a reminder that the 1980s weren’t all puffball skirts and party balloons on Top Of The Pops. But, then again, the '80s were the decade that defined me: they were the years of Live Aid, of me really discovering music and then getting to write about it for a living, including a spell for Smash Hits, one of the publishing phenomena of the pre-Internet age. I was 12 when the 1980s began, 22 when they ended, a child at the outset, a working man when they came to a close, and already in the thick of corporate politics with a job at Sky TV, having passed my O-levels and comprehensively failed my A-levels somewhere along the way.

Picture: Netflix

The biggest problem with dramatisations of real events is always the casting, and The Crown has been no different on occasion. That said, Olivia Coleman and Tobias Menzies have been superb as the sovereign and her consort, Philip, in the third and fourth seasons, and Gillian Anderson, despite an early tendency to sound more like Steve Nallon’s Spitting Image delivery, has been brilliant. In some respects, taking on Thatcher is one of the more challenging roles Anderson could have accepted. Get it wrong, and it’s hopeless parody; get it right, and you open up all the old wounds again. However, Thatcher shares the limelight of Series 4 with the doomed marriage of Princess Charles and Princess Diana, and I can imagine showrunner Peter Morgan took on the challenge of recreating that with some glee. As much as it evolved into a bubbling sea of acrimonious media froth, with Diana’s tragic adult life played out from the announcement of her engagement until her death in a Paris tunnel just 16 years later, The Crown’s depiction of the near-Shakespearian tragedy of a troubled heir to the throne unable to marry the married woman he actually loved, but instead being virtually forced into marriage with a sweet young Sloane Ranger from landed stock, is as engrossing as it was genuinely sad. Charles’ portrayal by Josh O'Connor does stray into pantomime villainy, and Morgan hasn’t held back from positioning the plant-whispering prince as an embittered control freak. Sadly, this has led to a social media backlash against the real Charles and Camilla. For this season only, Emma Corrin has played Diana with aplomb, not only getting the 'People's Princess' and her dewy-eyed, head-tilted coquettishness, but projecting her vulnerability and isolation and, ultimately, how she was so utterly a square peg in a round hole within Clan Windsor.

There is, of course, much to criticise The Crown for its take on real events. Since Series 4 was released two weeks ago, newspaper columnists and the twittersphere alike have been frothing at the alleged inaccuracies. Some have been valid. No, Lord Mountbatten didn’t write to Charles, on the day he was blown up by the IRA, urging him to do his duty and find “some sweet and innocent, well-tempered girl with no past” to settle down with; no, Margaret Thatcher and husband Dennis were not put through a purgatorial test of etiquette on their first visit to Balmoral in 1979; and, no, Diana wasn’t put through a horrendous rite of passage, early on, at a mob gathering at Buckingham Palace, where Princess Margaret (played not entirely convincingly by Helena Bonham-Carter) is depicted as castigating the novice princess for getting her curtseys wrong (“Spiteful rubbish,” said the Daily Mail). There are many more acts of clear dramatic licence that have brought former courtiers and royal biographers out of the woodwork, as well as those with a more genuine, personal connection.

Picture: Netflix

To state the bleeding obvious, any misconception that The Crown is a documentary should have been brushed away long before people pressed the Netflix button. If you step back from the reality that it depicts a family we all think we know, and filter out the fact that none of us, not even those who may have fleetingly been in the company of an actual royal, have any actual knowledge of what they’re really like, sat around the dining tables and state rooms of their castles and stately homes. But who cares. Who cares if the plot lines are Albert Square transported to Buckingham Palace ("GIT AHT OF MY PALACE!!!) or Coronation Street recreated at Balmoral. It’s engrossing stuff. Yes, a pile of cheese, but as cheese is one of the few things my dietary requirements can tolerate these days, I’ve lapped up every episode so far, and am actually getting quite impatient for seasons five and six (there will be no more after that) to get a move on. 

We’ve spent the better part of the last nine months in lockdown with our own families, ultra-dysfunctional or not, so virtually eavesdropping on a confected version of, arguably the most dysfunctional dynasty on the planet has been a richly delicious guilty pleasure. And I appear to be craving more. 

One less of the genuine seven

By now you will have read every obituary of Sir Sean Connery, so there’s not a lot left that I could add. Every tribute has commented on his being the actor who defined James Bond, and while there was much more to his canon than that one part, over six ‘official’ appearances as 007 he helped create the modern cinematic franchise. Almost 60 years on - give or take delays - it is still an event, and one of only a handful of film series that can genuinely classed as such.

Connery was the definitive Bond, not that he was meant to be. Ian Fleming himself had a very different idea for who should play his raffish gentleman spy. Cary Grant, Rex Harrison and Richard Burton were all in the frame to play Bond in Dr. No, and Connery’s physical appearance (an “over-developed stunt man”, according to Fleming) counted against him in the mind of the author who felt that the Scottish former milkman and coffin polisher was “unrefined”. And yet, today, we think of nothing else. Whatever fondness exists for Roger Moore, Timothy Dalton and, the closest Bond has come to Connery’s authenticity, Daniel Craig, the first actor to say the words “Bond, James Bond” in that immortal casino scene in Dr. No cast the Scot indelibly as the 007 rarely improved upon.

Of course, the films that followed played their part: I still adore Dr. No and From Russia With Love for their noirish simplicity, unencumbered by the ‘gags’ and the gadgets that became the Bond films’ trademark. By Connery’s third outing, Goldfinger, director Guy Hamilton and longtime Bond designer Ken Adam started to spread their wings with the trickery and elaborate sets that would become an integral part of the total 007 theatre. But throughout them all, from Dr. No to Diamonds Are Forever, Connery was the undoubted star, even if he’d grown bored after his fifth appearance, You Only Live Twice, and was persuaded back to the part with a substantial cheque (a record fee at the time) in Diamonds, following George Lazenby’s one and only (and, it must be said, good) appearance in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service.

What followed, however, in Connery’s filmography, is the subject of some debate. Bond turned him into “one of the seven greatest film stars of all time”, according to Steven Spielberg, who would cast him as Indiana Jones’ father in The Last Crusade. Bond gave him the ability to pick and choose what he played, and when he played. There were questionable efforts, like The Man Who Would Be King and John Boorman’s sci-fi adventure, Sardoz, and even big-budget Hollywood blockbusters like The Rock which no doubt chewed up Connery’s star power, but was hardly a high cinematic watermark. But, like his age contemporary Clint Eastwood, amongst the so-so career fillers sat some genuine mid-career gems. The Untouchables comes immediately to mind: Brian de Palma’s gritty Chicago masterpiece, setting the wholesome Elliott Ness (Kevin Costner) against Al Capone (Robert De Niro), finds Connery on fine form as Irish-American cop Jimmy Malone, providing Ness with street-smart patriarchy. “They pull a knife, you pull a gun. He sends one of yours to the hospital, you send one of his to the morgue. That’s the Chicago way,” he guides his earnest younger associate, delivering a line with atypical understatement. 

Then there was The Hunt For Red October, another big budget yarn, based on Tom Clancy’s blockbuster novel, in which Connery - with no change whatsoever to his Scottish brogue - plays the rogue Russian submarine commander Marko Ramius, who steals a revolutionary new sub and parks it off the coast of America before defecting, making a new cinema hero out of the Jack Ryan character in the process. What it shares with The Rock in terms of confected tension, Connery - and a bizarre hairpiece - elevates it to something far more engrossing. As with his Indiana Jones outing, and The Untouchables, these are the films that underline Connery’s undisputed - some might say, unsurpassed - star power.

Indeed, taking the helicopter view of Sean Connery, whether you rate him for his Bond films, his occasional obscurities or the big-budget commercial monsters that cashed in on his fame, Hollywood has lost one of its greatest players. Charm, charisma, an occasional edge (and let’s not get into his politically incorrect comments…), the working class Scot traversed borders. He was 90 when he died, a good innings as they say. Even if he’d been in retirement since 2006, he’d put in a body of work that was everything we should love about a movie star. A proper movie star. And Steven Spielberg, of all people should know what they’re really like.