‘The Crown’ and Diminishing Returns
Netflix’s series about the British royals has always been transparent propaganda, but historic distance provided some initial heft.
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Every aspect of the British Royal Family amazes me1. That they represent a slightly-broken line of succession dating back to the 11th century2, that they have no actual last name, that they still exist as a quasi-political entity in the 21st century, these are all amazing things. The most amazing? That they are real, actual people who actually exist, and not the fictional creations of a mean-spirited author who wants you to hate Britain3.
Still, I understand the fascination with people who have all sorts of ancient titles, money, and castles4. Royalty still inspires visions of bloodthirsty autocrats building empires when they’re not hosting orgies and whatnot, and the modern age has made such people even more interesting due to the sheer absurdity of their existence5. No wonder they’re such a touristy attraction, and no wonder people watch a show like The Crown, which works very hard to convey the message that the Royal Family are just these guys, you know? And they’re not perfect or anything but they mean well and thus should totally be allowed to keep their castles and phantom political power so soft they can only whisper it in dark rooms twice a year or something. Come for the juicy gossip about lusty affairs, stay for the rehabilitation of overt racism and imperialism6!
To be fair, the first few seasons of The Crown were entertaining enough7. But as the show has progressed, the entertainment value has decreased in inverse proportion with the show’s propagandist tendencies. The final season is both deadly dull and shamelessly apologetic about the Royals (the show now exists in a universe where Prince Andrew not only doesn’t exist, he apparently never existed8), and there’s a reason for this: It’s hit the very recent past.
We Mean It, Man
The whole point of The Crown is to make Elizabeth II look good, and it did a fairly good job of this in the early going. Played with wide-eyed implied hysteria by Claire Foy, The Crown traded on the idea that Elizabeth was doing her best, fighting the patriarchy, and refusing to show her ankles all at the same time. With Foy’s Elizabeth a buttoned-down authoritarian in a tidy hairdo, Prince Philip (Matt Smith) brought a nice dash of serial-killer-cum-despot vibes—you got the sense that Smith’s Philip would happily commit atrocities if it meant he got funding for the royal yacht or got permission to just wear his favorite naval uniform all the time, even to bed9.
The early seasons worked because we’re at a remove—the story picks up in the aftermath of World War II, nearly 80 years ago, which makes fictionalizing world events a lot easier. Plus, there were a lot of juicy world events that the Queen and her family of rapscallions were involved in10, giving the show a lot of dramatic backdrops to use. And, importantly, Britain and the Crown were still globally influential—or at least considered themselves to be. Stories depicting the Queen traveling the world trying to hold together the fragile fumes of empire were at least interesting11.
As we’ve moved forward in time, the acting talent has remained top-notch, but the stories have slowly contracted and become insular and intimate. The royals no longer travel the world affecting the policies, politics, and economies of their former colonies and conquests, they mope about at home because they can’t divorce, marry, or hang out with who they like. It might be possible to make compelling drama from these materials if the people being depicted were at all interesting, but when you’re stuck with King Charles III and his father—two of the most boring and yet ridiculous people in history12—as dramatic foils the appeal of intimate stories of the heart will inevitably be minimal.
God Save Your Mad Parade
The other reason for the diminishing returns of The Crown is its increased interests in being an elaborate apologia for the Royal Family itself13. Prince Andrew’s complete absence in the final seasons is a glaring example—it might have been interesting to see a fictional version of how the family confronted those issues!—but where the show once at least allowed the question of the Royal Family’s utility and necessity to be asked, in the last two seasons or so it has increasingly taken on a more solidly reactionary position: The Crown may be outdated in some ways and Elizabeth Regina might make a charmingly bitchy mistake or too14, but in the end it does more good than harm.
In one episode the Queen wrestles with the low approval ratings the royals have been getting, and commissions a study to find out what they’ve been doing wrong15. After getting a lot of strong feedback, she launches a review of all the bizarre, antiquated posts funded by The Crown, like the Warden of the Swans or the Frames Conservator, which are perceived by the public as both wastes of money and literal living symbols of how out of touch the royals are16. This is light stuff, but kind of interesting, especially if you didn’t know that something called the Queen’s Guide to the Sands exists17.
But lo! After her thorough review old Betty realizes something: The Crown isn’t wasting money and energy on outdated medieval bullshit! It’s preserving history. She firmly refuses to change anything, and you half expect her to do a Breakfast Club fist pump as she walks away to triumphant music while the entirety of Great Britain claps, tears in their eyes. Where the show once parsed out its conservative pro-royal vision with a modicum of subtlety and art, by the end it was just firehosing that shit into your face. Lacking historical distance and flagrantly omitting the most difficult—and therefore intriguing—aspects of the royal family leaves you with a show that loses its own arguments for existing.
Am I just salty because the royal family has like two dozens castles and I have zero castles? No, because castles are drafty and haunted. Also, I am rich in cats, so I need for nothing18.
NEXT WEEK: ‘It Happened One Night’ and the Case of the Curiously Modern Old Movies
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Their existence, for one.
I can’t trace my own heritage back further than about 80 years. I may be a replicant.
That would be J.K. Rowling. BAZINGA.
Also crowns and Scottish rocks that may or may not impart magical powers.
This works for me as well, which is why I’m considering THE SHEER ABSURDITY OF MY EXISTENCE as the title of my memoir.
Also a master class in standing like you have a rod rammed up your ass with your hands folded neatly in front of you.
Possibly due to the presence of Matt Smith, which made it possible to imagine this was just a super-extended episode of Doctor Who in which The Doctor had to pose as a royal to sniff out Zygons.
Instantly making it into a comfort watch.
What grown man doesn’t prefer spending all his time shirtless on a boat with dozens of other men, engaging in beard-growing contests and the occasional accidental orgy? Seriously, every scene of Philip on a boat had me humming In The Navy.
Great Britain’s decline from world power to Undesirable Stopover On Way to Europe wasn’t instantaneous, after all. It took some time.
The lack of scenes where Liz has all the crown jewels and robes and such brought to her room so she can wear them all at once while waving a scepter and shouting OFF WITH THEIR HEADS was disappointing. Because you know that happened at least once.
And I say that as a man who is both hella boring and hella ridiculous (and who also still uses hella, apparently).
One late episode in the final season makes a point of showing that a young, pre-Queen Elizabeth totally hung out and danced with a bunch of Black American GIs and people of diverse sexualities on V-E Day, which was absolutely not intended to counter the general narrative that the Royals are so inherently racist they can’t be allowed to mix with the general public under any circumstances.
I have to imagine that in real life Elizabeth II was profoundly alarmed any time she found herself in a room with someone who wasn’t related to her in some distant way.
Answer: Existing.
The Duchess has declared me to be the Wrangler of the Cats, which comes with an annual stipend of one bottle of whiskey and the right to be addressed as “His Excellency” as long as no one else in within earshot.
If you also hoped against hope that this had something to do with enormous sandworms kept in a secret Royal Death Park, then you are my people.
Except a lint roller. Like, I need one of those desperately.
When we visited Edinburgh Castle, we got the see the magic Scottish stone. Except we thought it must be not on display that day because all we saw was an uninteresting block about the size of a step on your front stoop. I have several blocks like that inconveniencing my efforts to mow my yard.
But no. It turns out that boring block was, in fact, the magic stone. That's when I realized its magic was in its power as a metaphor for the royal family.