Art vs reality

Watching the latest series of The Crown seems like an exercise in voyeurism

So the final season of The Crown (or rather, the first four episodes) dropped on Netflix. And there was a certain predictability to the way I dropped everything else and settled down on my couch to binge watch it. And now, after that marathon viewing session, here are some of my thoughts. 

• The more recent the events covered by The Crown, the more uncomfortable the watch. Now that we are into the period in which Princess Diana died tragically, watching the show feels like an exercise in voyeurism. We see her talking with her young sons, William and Harry, on the phone, all three oblivious to the fact that this will be their last conversation. We look on as Prince Charles wakes up his ‘darling boys’ to break it to them that their mother has died. Mercifully, the scene is sans any audible dialogue but just seeing the expressions of devastation on William and Harry’s faces makes you feel as if you are intruding on a family tragedy. (Spoiler alert: that is exactly what all of us watching are, in fact, doing.)
• Elizabeth Debicki looks uncannily like Diana and is decked out in an identical wardrobe to depict the Princess’ last days on earth. But for all her cocking her head sideways and looking up shyly in a manner that is supposed to mimic the Princess, she fails singularly in projecting the charisma and star quality that made Diana such a supernova on the world stage. She plays Diana as a victim — perhaps with the benefit of hindsight — when in reality Diana was emerging, post-divorce, as a significant force in her own right. Diana’s strength and power as she took on the royal family are missing in this portrayal which is keen to emphasise her sadness and essential loneliness. 
• You never feel more regretful of the rift that has formed between William and Harry than when you watch the bond between the brothers as they negotiate boyhood together within the protocol-bound confines of the royal family. They laugh and josh with their parents as a team. They both seem suspicious of the sudden closeness blooming between their mother and Dodi Fayed. And when tragedy strikes William is the protective brother who tries to shield Harry from the world and the knowledge that things will never be the same again for either of them. What a shame that brotherly bond could not endure into adulthood. 
• And finally, why does Peter Morgan, the creator of The Crown, hate the late Queen Elizabeth so much? Whatever else you might think of her — and by all accounts, she was not a great mother — she was an adored grandmother in her later years, with all her grand kids testifying to how much she loved them. And yet, even as Diana lies dead and her sons are inconsolable, we don’t get as much as a glimpse of the Queen comforting them — even though both William and Harry credited her with getting them through that awful time. But I guess a remote and unfeeling Queen is what worked best in Morgan’s script, so that’s what we are saddled with here.

       As they don't say, the pen is mightier than the crown -- at least in the universe

       of the Crown.

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.

Happily ever after...

Prince Charles and Camilla: a love story for our times

Last week, Prince Charles brought the house down at one of his many engagements in India by referring to his wife, Camilla, as his ‘Mehbooba’. No, he wasn’t inspired by the iconic song of the same name from Sholay. The word had been gifted to him by some of his Indian friends back in the UK, who had explained that it meant ‘beloved’. So, that’s how Charles presented Camilla to the assembled guests, “My wife…my Mehbooba” even as Camilla blushed and then flashed her trademark jolly-hockey-sticks grin. And the audience lapped it up; this unabashed display of middle-aged love.

And indeed, looking at the many images of the Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall on their recent trip to India, one thing shines clear. Camilla is clearly Charles’ ‘Mehbooba’. The pair of them look as loved up as a newly-wedded couple, exchanging complicit glances, the odd giggle, and touching each other with the ease of long intimacy. They share asides, gaze adoringly at one another, laugh easily and often, and seem to take enormous pleasure in each other’s company. Not bad going for a couple which first met and fell in love in their 20s, and then made their way back to one another after two failed marriages and much rotten publicity. But clearly, all those scandals are long forgotten as the British heir to the throne readies to take over from his mother, with the woman he has loved for most of his adult life firmly by his side.

They were together on the banks of the Ganga in Rishikesh, performing a ritual aarti; they visited the Indian Military Academy (IMA) in Dehradun; they did the rounds of Asha Sadan, a home for abandoned and homeless children in Mumbai; they were the star attraction at a party hosted by Mukesh and Neeta Ambani for the Prince’s British Asian Trust; and then they headed off to Sri Lanka, where Charles was standing in for his mother, Queen Elizabeth, at the meetings of Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting (CHOGM).

For us in India, the contrast to the way things had unfolded when Charles visited with his first wife, Diana, were too stark to miss. There was the famous kiss-that-wasn’t when Charles bent down to kiss Diana on the cheek as she handed him a polo trophy only to have her turn away, leaving him red-faced with embarrassment and fury. And who can forget that haunting image of the Princess posing forlorn and alone in front of that monument to eternal love, Agra’s Taj Mahal, while her husband busied himself with engagements in Delhi? They may have been joined together in what was billed as a fairy-tale wedding, but their strained expressions and public unhappiness made it clear that they were rapidly building up to a nightmare divorce.

Who could have predicted then that Charles would one day be back with a new wife, Camilla – then widely reviled as the mistress who had been the third person in the Wales marriage and had, in the Princess’ memorable phrase, made it a ‘bit crowded’ – the memories of the Diana years finally exorcised? Gone was the miserable git who looked perennially pensive and glum. In his place, was a man finally happy in his own skin, who had found the contentment and peace he had always been looking for in his second go-around.

I know that this is an unfashionable view, but I have long believed that the saga of Charles and Camilla is the love story of our times. Theirs is the commitment that has stood the test of time, taking on vicious attacks in the media and the derision and anger of the British public to emerge bloodied but unbowed. And you only have to look at the relaxed body language of the Prince and see how he lights up in the presence of his ‘darling wife’, to know that he is finally in the kind of supportive and loving relationship that he always craved.

But what I like most about the images of Charles and Camilla on their Indian adventure is how they tell us is that even if you screw up big-time the first time round, you are not fated to eternal loneliness. Their shining faces and brilliant smiles teach us that it is possible to find happiness the second time round.

Second marriages have, of late, become a hot topic of discussion in India, not least because of that now-famous Tanishq ad which features a single mother getting married again (Is she single? Is she widowed? Is she divorced? The answer to all these questions is: Who cares? Or even: How does it matter?) I have to confess that it left me touched and a little teary-eyed. Yes, I know it is cheesy (“Aaj sey Daddy bulaoon?” asks the young daughter) and designed to tug at your heartstrings. But it is moving for all that, with its promise of new beginnings and a brand-new love story.

As far as I am concerned, the cynics can carp all they want about second marriages being a triumph of hope over experience. But sometimes – actually most times – hope is all you need when it comes with lavish lashings of love.

Where's the party tonight?

And do you know how to work it?

It was a famous silken-tongued Hindi film lyricist, who shall remain nameless, who first called me out on it. We were both at a party held on the manicured lawns of a ministerial bungalow in Lutyens’ Delhi. I was being held hostage by the most boring poseur ever and could not for the life of me figure out a way to extricate myself from the most mind-numbing conversation ever. But just when I was giving up on the evening in despair, my lyricist friend joined us. He said a few words, witty as ever, and then steered me off in the direction of another group.

“You really don’t know to work a party, do you?” he said pityingly. I nodded sadly in affirmation. “Let me tell you how this works,” he said firmly, “you spend 10 to 15 minutes with one person and then go on to the next. No lurking about, no casting helpless glances at your friends telegraphing for help, none of that nonsense. Just say, ‘It was nice meeting you,’ and move on.”

Well, it’s all very well for him, I thought darkly. But this sort of thing is easier said than done. And sure enough, at the next big party I attended, I found myself in the same fix. Stuck with the biggest bore in the room, and with no escape in sight. Let me tell you, it’s not easy to spin out the ‘It was nice meeting you’ line to someone who never pauses to draw breath as he witters on and on and on.

So yes, it is a truth that I have come to terms with. I really do not know how to work a party. I either spend the evening tucked away in a corner with my core group of friends, having a good laugh or two; or I end up stuck with someone who has reached his anecdotage and is not afraid to inflict it upon anyone that will listen. And sadly, more often than not, that turns out to be me.

Which is why I have nothing but pure admiration for those intrepid souls who think nothing of walking up to the guest of honour – film star, Nobel prize winner, celebrity author, head of state, rock musician, take your pick – and engaging them in witty banter. Though my lip does tend to curl a bit when they do not know when to back off and allow other people to bask in that reflected limelight. And I am always reminded of what Prince Charles once said about why he hates going to parties. It’s always the pushy, obnoxious people who come up and try to make conversation, he lamented. The decent ones are too shy and leery about pushing themselves forward. As a result, he never meets the kind of people he would like to. (Me neither, Your Royal Highness, me neither!)

But there are some people, like my lyricist friend, who know just how to get the most out of the party. They hit the ground running, heading straight for the host and telling him or her how fabulous the party looks. Niceties done with, they scan the room for the guest of honour. They go up and introduce themselves if there is nobody around to perform that office. They engage him in conversation about himself (a quick Google search on a smartphone on the way to the party is much recommended) for five to six minutes. Then, before the queue forming up behind them gets too disorderly, they say their goodbyes and move on.

Then, it’s one to the buzziest group of people, the A-listers who are much in demand. They hang around the sidelines, listening to the latest gossip, laughing at all the right moments, and soaking in the atmosphere. They know it is not necessary to say very much at this point. It’s enough to be seen in the right company.

Ten to 15 minutes of this and it is time to move on. This time it is to the fringes, to all those B-listers who are dying to be told what the A-listers were talking about. This is the time to get chatty, to give ‘paisa vasool’ as we say in these parts, relaying all those tasty tit-bits they’ve hoovered up so far.

If this is a game you want to excel it, remember some salient rules.

One, never spend more than 15 minutes with any one person or group. But while you are with them, give them your full attention. Don’t look over their shoulders to see if anyone more interesting is hoving into view. That’s just plain rude.

Two, if you want people to think of you as a brilliant conversationalist, then for God’s sake, don’t talk too much. Ask questions instead. And then listen to the answers as if you actually care. Ask a few follow-ups to show how interested you are. There’s nothing people like more than talking about themselves. Give them a chance to do so, and you won’t have to do very much at all.

Three, don’t drink yourself silly. Keep a drink in your hand, because if you don’t you will spend the entire evening explaining why you are not drinking, yaar! Take a few sips because otherwise you may not get through the evening. Abandon it on a surface half-drunk and move on. A waiter will sidle up to hand you another. Rinse and repeat. And leave sober.

Now, that’s how you work a party. As for me, I will be sitting at home, ensconced on my sofa, watching a DVD box-set and eating dinner off a tray. Try not to be too envious.