Show + Tell with Paul Flynn
As real royal life dances up a storm, The Crown returns in faded glory, while The Grand Tour runs out of gas
SOME ACCIDENTAL off-screen publicity has perfectly perfumed the arrival of season two of The Crown. The 70th anniversary of the marriage of the Queen and Prince Philip and the announcement of the engagement of Harry and Meghan mean that love is purposefully in the air over at Buck Pal. If Peter Morgan’s fictionalised interpretation of previous events stands up, let’s hope Harry’s in for a happier ride than his grandparents, neither of whom exit this 10-episode bonanza flushed with romance.
We meet the Windsors in the late ’50s, 10 years into Her Majesty’s marriage. Some suggestive extra-marital skulduggery between Philip and a Rebecca Loos-ish ballerina may have stained its palette. Elizabeth must weather the ill-winds on her marital doorstep for the sake of the country.
Watching a marriage reconstruct with pageantry and compromise is as tense as it sounds. There is a lot of sighing involved. Morgan lets slip for the first time a hint of nostalgic revulsion at the institution, which may lose The Crown a significant chunk of its older audience. Claire Foy is trapped in the title role, left to execute a performance of a performance, as the Queen curls up into a rigidly diaphanous impression of a woman. Neither Prime Ministers Eden or Macmillan have the chutzpah of John Lithgow’s stunning turn as Churchill in season one.
Vanessa Kirby’s Princess Margaret is seemingly on a one-woman mission to usher in the swinging ’60s. Her eventual betrothal to society photographer and cad-abouttown, the Earl of Snowdon, at last lends the series some sparkle beneath the tireless long shots of costume being applied, curtains being drawn, doors poetically shut, servants being told to turn away. The sheer fabulousness of their proposal scene only highlights the lack of incident elsewhere.
The Crown has foregone most of its previous charm. You long for the zip and wit, camp and flair of Downton Abbey. The problem with telling a real-life story? You can’t just kill off the boring characters. Bring on the Thatcher/diana years. They can’t come quickly enough. Begins Friday, Netflix