Royal Progress

The latest season of The Crown is more fiction than fact; but great fun nonetheless

It’s more than a little disconcerting when a ‘period drama’ is about events that you remember all too clearly because you lived through them. Not only does it make you wonder how old you have become, if you are anything like me, you spend your entire time shouting at the TV screen, “No, no, no! That’s not how it happened at all!”

So, yes, that’s how I watched season four of The Crown, the Netflix series based loosely – and on the evidence of the latest episodes, very loosely indeed – on the life and times of Queen Elizabeth II and her family. And now that I have finished bingeing on the series, here are some of my entirely random thoughts and observations.

•       This season of the show owes more to writer Peter Morgan’s imagination than it does to history. Even in the earlier series, Morgan had played fast and loose with facts (Prince Philip was never implicated in the Profumo affair; and nor did he have an affair with a ballerina) but the plot remained true to essential facts. That is not
true of season four at all. Instead, Morgan cheerfully makes things up to move the plot forward, which has the effect of making even the events that are rooted in reality seem fictitious.

•       The nuanced portrayal of the royals in the previous seasons has given way to an almost caricature-like quality. The Queen is depicted as a cold, awkward woman, so distant from her children that she asks her courtiers to prepare notes on each child’s hobbies and interests before she meets them so that she is not ‘unprepared’. The sensitive Prince Charles of season three is nowhere to be found; instead the heir of the throne is a self-pitying figure consumed with jealousy of his young wife. Princess Margaret is reduced to a boorish presence with a complete lack of charm and grace. Suffice to say, it is difficult to recognize these characters as the same ones who populated The Crown’s universe in seasons two and three.

•        I am no fan of Margaret Thatcher but, honestly, the Iron Lady deserved better than the mincing, parody-like performance that Gillian Anderson offers in her rendering of the British Prime Minister. Anderson plays her like a hunched old woman, perpetually put upon, both weary and worn-down. You never ever get a hint of the force of nature that Thatcher, a truly transformative figure, was during this period. And that is truly a missed opportunity.

•       The best thing about the show is Emma Corrin’s performance as Princess Diana. She gets Diana’s charm and coyness just right, that slight tilt of the head as she looks up through her lashes at the world, that tremulous smile. But where the show fails – and this is Morgan’s failure rather than Corrin’s – is that it fails to capture the essence of Diana’s personality. Yes, she was naïve in some ways, but she was cunning and manipulative in many others. She may have started out as Shy Di but she soon learned to play the media like a maestro. There were myriad dimensions to her personality and to project her as a mere victim is to do her injustice.

•       Was 80’s fashion really as awful as it is portrayed in this series? I was a college kid, and then a young professional, during this decade and I always thought that we dressed reasonably stylishly. But I couldn’t help cringing at the young Lady Diana’s wardrobe in this series. All those piecrust collars, novelty cardigans, and
meringue-like gowns seem so hopelessly dated, even downright dowdy. That sent me scurrying back to my own photo albums of this period to revisit my own ‘look’ during this time. And you know what, the series has got this entirely right. The 80s really are the decade that fashion forgot.

•       And finally, is it fair to make a TV series about people who are still alive and susceptible to being hurt by the portrayal of their inner lives? How would Charles and Camilla feel, for instance, about being reduced to adulterous fornicators? And how would Prince William and Harry feel about watching their ‘mother’ with her head stuck down a toilet bowl? Is turning other people’s lives into our entertainment
ever a good idea? There are no easy answers; but it’s worth thinking about, anyway.

Picture perfect

When it comes to projecting a public 'image', women tend to be more successful than men

When you hear the words ‘iconic image’ what is the first picture that flashes before your mind’s eye. Is it the streak of white in a shock of curly black hair that Indira Gandhi made famous? Is the pussycat bow and structured handbag that was such an integral part of Margaret Thatcher’s persona? Is it the little black dress accessorized with layers of pearls that Coco Chanel turned into a style statement that survives to this day?

It is not a coincidence that all of the examples cited are of women. You could say that this is because we pay more attention to how women dress and present themselves whereas the style choices of men are not subject to the same scrutiny. And you could well be right.

But, if you ask me, I think this goes much further. Women who are in public life are much more aware of the image they present to the world (perhaps because they know they are being judged by it) than their male counterparts. They are more inclined and better equipped to make a statement with the way they look. And they are fully conscious of the power that such iconography carries.

Indira Gandhi’s imperious wave of white hair; those impeccably-draped saris; the rudraksh mala: it was the perfect image for a strong leader of a country that was universally perceived as being weak in that era. But such was the force of her personality when she looked down her aristocratic nose that even such world leaders as President Nixon and Henry Kissinger were left feeling like errant schoolboys.

On the other hand, Margaret Thatcher – perceived as a bit of a martinet by most people – had to soften her look to appear more sympathetic. So in came the pussycat bow while the helmet-like hair was changed to a subtle, layered style. Her string of pearls served both as a nod to her femininity and a subtle counterpoint to the power suits she wore like a uniform. And then there was the famous handbag, which seemed surgically attached to her hand, and even spawned a new term: ‘handbagging’ for the way Thatcher swept aside all opposition.

Yes, women know the power of appearances when they are striving to make a political point. Think of Benazir Bhutto, the trouser-wearing, trendy daughter of Z.A. Bhutto, in her younger, more Westernised avatar. When it came to reclaiming her political legacy, though, she took care to drape herself in the colours of the Pakistani flag. Her green salwar-kameez paired with a white dupatta draped over her head conveyed a message about her dedication to the twin values of patriotism and peace; a message that was all

the more powerful for being non-verbal.

It’s not an accident that some women evoke a certain image in our minds. Think Queen Elizabeth II and an image of a slightly matronly figure in twin-sets in block colours, accessorized with matching hats and gloves, will pop into your mind. Think Coco Chanel, and you will immediately picture a little black dress topped off with endless layers of pearls. Think Michelle Obama, and a pair of uber-toned biceps will pop up in your mind’s eye (no wonder her husband joked about her right to ‘bare arms’).

Closer home, too, it is the ladies who have a stronger public image than the men. Sonia Gandhi in her perfectly-draped handlooms; Sushma Swaraj with her trademark mangalsutra and sindoor; Mayawati in her pink salwar-kameezes; Mamata Banerjee in her ‘woman of the peepuls’ crumpled cotton saris; and Meira Kumar whose sartorial style is as unruffled as her demeanour.

Among the men, though, it is only Narendra Modi with his trademark half-sleeve kurtas, who comes close to having an ‘iconic’ image. And thereby hangs a tale…

Tears in heaven

Since when did we start deriding people for crying at funerals?

You couldn’t possibly have missed the brouhaha that erupted when George Osborne, British Chancellor of the Exchequer, let one solitary tear escape down his cheek at the funeral of Margaret Thatcher.

The Internet went into instant meltdown. Some derided him for this show of ‘weakness’ (you know how ‘real’ men ‘never’ cry, right?). Others dismissed his tearing up as a cynical ploy to show just how good a Thatcherite he was (after all, what was he weeping about, given that he had met the Iron Lady on less than a dozen occasions?). There were those who agreed that yes, the tears were not genuine, but put them down to the Tory leader trying to create a more ‘caring’ image for himself (remember, this was a man who was booed at such a feel-good event as the London Olympics). Amidst all the jokes, jabs and jeering, there were only a few who said what I was feeling: what is the world coming to if you can’t even cry at a funeral?

Full disclosure here: I am one of the blubbers of the world. And yes, I cry at funerals. It doesn’t really matter how well I have known the deceased, or how many times I have met them. There is something about funerals that brings out the tears – well mine, at any rate. Sometimes it is a particular bhajan being sung as part of the service; sometimes a tiny detail that evokes memories of funerals past (of those I was particularly close to); sometimes it is the thought of how I would feel coping with a loss like this one; and sometimes it is just the sight of close family members of the deceased trying to pull themselves together even though they are clearly falling apart.

At a time like this, sympathy segues seamlessly into empathy, and you can’t help but cry for the universal sorrow that is bereavement. This is not something any of us can escape. At some time or another, we will have to mourn our grandparents, bid farewell to our parents, experience the loss of a sibling, see a close friend succumb to illness. If we are very lucky, we will never know the gut-wrenching sorrow of losing someone of the next generation, who should by rights have been the one to mourn us. But no matter how life pans out, bereavement that is something that all of us will have to bear, sooner or later.

As the saying goes, grief is the price you pay for love.

But what is the acceptable face of grief when you lose someone you loved, or even just admired from afar? And has it changed over the years?

In India, at least, I would have to say yes. Growing up in a traditional joint family, as a child I was witness to the spectacular outpouring of grief that everyone indulged in when there was a death in the extended clan. There was weeping; there was wailing; on some occasions, there was even some beating of breasts. It was loud, it was disturbing, it was even melodramatic at times. But everything said and done, it was undoubtedly cleansing.

After such an outburst of grief, you felt that you had really mourned someone. There was no buttoning up of your feelings. There was no concession made to sparing the feelings of others. There was no embarrassment about letting it all hang out. In a sense, you were given permission to grieve as publically as you saw fit; as loudly as you wanted to. And nobody judged you or condemned you as an incontinent so-and-so.

In the old days, certain Indian states like Rajasthan even had professional mourners, called Rudaalis (the subject of an eponymous movie that earned lead actress Dimple Kapadia a National award). These were lower-caste women hired to mourn (as loudly as possible) in an explosive public display of grief. This worked at two levels. One, to express the sorrow that the family may have been shy of exhibiting in public and two, to goad them into have a proper cry. Because sometimes there really is no better catharsis than tears.

But that was then. Now, tears at funerals are seen as bad taste. It is considered somewhat repellent to make a public exhibition of your grief. If you must cry, then cry in private. You must not shed tears in public in case you make other people uncomfortable. So, chin up please (and make sure it’s not quivering). And let’s see what the British so delightfully describe as a ‘stiff upper lip’.

Well, I don’t know about you, but I am tired of being told that a display of emotions or the appearance of tears at a funeral (or anywhere else, for that matter) is something to be ashamed of. That we must present a stoic façade at all times, or stand condemned – as George Osborne was – of everything ranging from emotional incontinence to hypocritical cynicism.  

Honestly, it’s enough to make a grown man – or woman – cry.

The case of the missing handbag

Margaret Thatcher and Hina Rabbani Khar may have made them famous; but Indian women politicians are not fans

You’ve got to hand it to Meryl Streep. After bringing the glacial fashion editor based on Anna Wintour to life in The Devil Wears Prada, she’s now appearing on our screens as the redoubtable Mrs Thatcher, the Iron Lady who is as far removed from Wintour’s Ice Queen as anyone could possibly be. And yet, such is Streep’s ability to morph herself into any life form that rave reviews have already starting pouring in for her portrayal of the former British Prime Minister.

What’s truly uncanny, though, is how much Meryl actually looks like Margaret in the film. There are the tweedy twin-sets, the blouses with a prim bow at the neck, the sturdy shoes, the impossibly bouffant hair. And then, of course, there’s the handbag.

Aha, the handbag. The accessory that was such a part of Thatcher’s look that it became the stuff of legend. Some speculated that the Prime Minister always carried a handbag in an effort to evoke a subliminal association with the Queen. Elizabeth II is never seen in public without a handbag dangling off her arm even though she famously carries no money (she has been known to refresh her lipstick at the dinner table though, so maybe the bag is for an emergency stash of make-up). And there seemed to be something to this theory as Thatcher started becoming more and more Queen-like as her reign wore on, even using the royal ‘we’ to refer to herself (as in “We have just become a grandmother”).

But, more pertinently, the handbag perennially hanging off her arm – ready to be wielded as an offensive weapon if the need ever arose – became something of a metaphor for Thatcher’s bullying style of politics. And those ministers and partymen who became victims of her iron-fist-in-an-iron-glove were described as having being ‘handbagged’, as in clouted about the head by her well-structured Asprey bag.

Such was the power of that image that even now, many decades after the event, we find it hard to picture Margaret Thatcher without her trademark handbag, swinging ominously by her side. It’s as much a part of her image as the poshed-up vowels, the helmet-like hair, and the slash of red lipstick. It signaled a certain purposefulness; it showed everyone that she meant business.

Yes, a handbag can say a lot simply by hanging off someone’s arm – and sometimes it says just as much by being conspicuously absent.

Look around you in our own political sphere. What do you see? I’ll tell you what you don’t: expensive handbags on the arms of our women politicians (with the exception of Mayawati, but more on her later).

Sonia Gandhi, the most powerful women politician in India by a long way, is never seen in public carrying a handbag. Sometimes when she attends AICC meetings or Congress plenary sessions, she carries a mannish briefcase bulging with papers and folders. But otherwise, her arms stay empty, swinging silently by her side, no matter where she is: speaking at an election rally, taking part in a political function, making an appearance at a wedding, or even attending Parliament.

Or take Jayalalitha, the chief minister of Tamil Nadu. She is always impeccably turned out like the nicely brought up, convent school girl that she is. Perfectly groomed hair, flawless complexion, beautifully draped saris (sometimes with capes to match) – but no handbag. In Delhi, chief minister Sheila Dixit shows a similar disdain for arm candy of any sort. And then, there’s the fiery Mamata Banerjee, chief minister of Paschim Bongo, who also refuses to carry a handbag (which is just as well, because she is the most likely to use it to clobber some hapless soul senseless when in one of her famous fits of temper).

All these ladies have very differing styles of politicking. But the one thing that unites them is that the handbag is always missing. It’s almost as if they see it as an emblem of frivolity which would work against their being taken seriously in the public sphere.

Given this background, it’s perhaps easy to understand why we reacted with such outrage when the Pakistan foreign minister, Hina Rabbani Khar, came to visit us with an enormous Birkin bringing up the rear. The bag took on a life of its own, occupying pride of place in every photo-op and effortlessly eclipsing poor old S.M. Krishna. And before you could say Hermes, a Birkin backlash was in full force. Khar’s judgement -- carrying an uber-expensive handbag on a state visit when she was representing a less-than-prosperous Pakistan – was called into question. And she herself came perilously close to being dismissed as a piece of fluff as a consequence, with her handbag doubling up as a badge of shame.

But strangely enough, the only Indian woman politician who makes a fetish of carrying a handbag has escaped that fate. Uttar Pradesh chief minister Mayawati is seldom seen without a designer bag hanging off her arm. In fact, one of her many statues had to be redone because the artist had omitted to graft a handbag on to her arm. But unlike Khar who had to deal with such derision because of her fondness for expensive leather goods, Mayawati has managed to sell her designer bags as a symbol of Dalit empowerment, a sign that she’s come a long way, baby.

Yes, as far as political messaging goes, it’s all in the bag – both when it’s hanging off someone’s arm or missing in action.