British films are an odd one. For a number of reasons, I never know how to react to them. The chest-beating, patriotic part of me always wants to think that they are excellent and my other more curmudgeonly part wants to put them down as the cheap, illegitimate step-child of Hollywood. This dilemma – American screenwriter aside – was in full force when I went to go and see The King’s Speech this week. For, that Colin Firth seemed a shoo-in for The Best Actor Oscar and the movie was nominated for another 11 gongs made me vicariously proud; yet I also thought it would be a cynical, trite royal story constructed solely to bother award ceremonies and please the British and American publics. In a way, both of my initial fears and feelings were confirmed.
As everyone will already know, The King’s Speech is about Bertie, The future King George VI of England and his attempts to overcome his stammer before, during and after the abdication crisis. His final goal is addressing the nation by radio at the outbreak of WWII. Said in those terms, it shouldn’t work; but it resoundingly does. What might initially be seen as a fairly pointless story about an uptight, unsavoury and unwilling monarch is granted a degree of universality through his unconventional relationship with equally unorthodox Aussie speech therapist, Lionel Logue. This ‘bromance’ (as Colin Firth has incongruously described it) is the source of much laughter and the human heart of the film. Bertie, or “His Majesty” as he insists on being called, must conquer his inhibitions to overcome his stammer and be King.
As has been mentioned, Colin Firth is magnificent as the stuttering king: convincingly stammering the audience into a visceral frenzy. The supporting cast, especially Geoffrey Rush as Logue and Helena Bonham-Carter as Queen Elizabeth, are also fantastic. So what was it that left me somewhat cold? The movie also seemed well-pitched and very well directed. There have been multiple reports of audience ovations in Dublin and elsewhere. But somehow it didn’t click with me.
It wasn’t really the re-writing (or airbrushing, depending on your take) of a mildly unsavoury, Nazi-sympathizing chapter in British history that left me indifferent. Though, while I do find that slightly unsettling, one must inevitably bow to the spectacle in these types of films and provide entertainment, not existential angst. I think I simply found it too perfectly-crafted: a decent film about a human subject that held no interest for me at all. Shallow where it could have been profound, it seemed to skirt the big issues. Involving but pointless as it had nothing new to say about human nature, it was a very contradictory affair. Worth going to see if only to see what all the fuss is about, 127 Hours has my vote.
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