Well, today was the big day for Their Royal Highnesses The Duke and Duchess of Sussex, so it seems appropriate to offer a few Royal romances as our Saturday movie date. The most directly relevant movie, Royal Wedding, made in 1947, was set in London against the background of Prince Harry's grandparents' nuptials and starred Fred Astaire and an actress whose dad was an actual guest at the actual real-life wedding - Sarah Churchill, daughter of Winston. But I'll say a few words about that tomorrow night in our Song of the Week department, and today cast our net a little further afield in search of celluloid romances between royals and commoners:
To be honest, when a Prince of the Blood Royal marries in the presence of Oprah Winfrey and George Clooney a half-black American actress who's dated a porn star and divorced her Jewish husband by mailing back the wedding ring and has a violent alcoholic brother who's held a gun to his girlfriend's head and sent his soon-to-be brother-in-law an open letter warning that this will be "the biggest mistake in royal wedding history"... to be honest, it makes even the racier royal romances of yesteryear seem a little tame. But let's do our best and go as far afield as the Hungarian box-office smash of 1941, Bob herceg - or, in English, Prince Bob. We're used to Mitteleuropean operettas featuring Mitteleuropean nobility: Princess Helene of Flausenthurn in Oscar Straus' Waltz Dream; Kálmán's Czardas Princess; Leo Fall's Dollar Princess (no relation to the Czardas Princess). It's easy to get this crowd mixed up: in the Népszinház-Vigopera production of A Nagymama, the part of Countess Szeremy was played by Baroness Ödön Splenyi - or was it the other way round? Oh, well, Ruritania is in the eye of the beholder, as you'll know if you caught the theme music I used for my serialization last year of The Prisoner of Zenda - a sly inside joke of mine for our Hungarian listeners.
In 1902 Jenö Huszka decided to write a Mitteleuropean operetta about British royalty: That was a Hungarian guy's idea of an unreal fantasy land - the United Kingdom. In Prince Bob, the eponymous Prince is actually called George, the son of the Queen of England. One night, he decides to sneak out on to the streets of London for some fun - or, as he sings, "Londonban, hej!" (which, in instrumental form, I used for my Zenda reading). To pass as a humble subject of the Crown rather than the heir to the throne, he adopts the name "Bob". In this guise, he meets and falls in love with a simple Cockney serving wench called Annie, the daughter of a baker who sells loaves on the curiously named thoroughfare Bowie Street. The Queen wants the Prince to marry the Countess Victoria of Clarence but "Bob" has other ideas and decides to follow his heart. The stage version opened at the Népszinház at the end of December 1902 and was the biggest hit Budapest had seen in twenty years. When a later Prince of Wales took up with a serving wench - or, anyway, an American divorcée - the Hungarians were quick to point out the plot had been lifted from a show they'd done 30 years earlier, and, in the wake of the abdication crisis, László Kalmár decided to make a film of Prince Bob, which eventually premiered in 1941. I saw it in Hungary a quarter century ago and enjoyed it immensely, almost as much as the splendidly vulgar state TV remake of 1972.
In Mitteleuropa, history is operetta and operetta is history: in The Merry Widow, Count Danilo's uniform was copied from that of the Crown Prince of Montenegro, though for the most part the show tends to highlight the quainter Balkan traditions rather than their more robust manifestations like genital severing. So, yes, in operetta, the cardboard counts are unbelievable and the plots are ridiculous. But, in this part of the world, real life is ridiculous and the characters in charge even more unbelievable. You want a king who marries a gypsy dancer? How about Carol II of Romania? The Austro-Hungarian Empire expanded by marriage rather than conquest, so those outlandish operetta romances have a sort of gritty neo-documentary street cred.
But operetta deals mainly in certainties. And, as the long reign of Franz Joseph wore on in Vienna, nothing was that certain anymore. In 1889, Crown Prince Rudolph and his mistress were found dead at the hunting lodge at Mayerling - either a double suicide or something even murkier. The "something" has remained a matter of speculation ever since. In Bermuda a couple of years back, I returned from dinner one night and switched on the TV intending to kill about 20 minutes before turning in. Instead, I found myself watching Terence Young's 1968 film Mayerling from beginning to end, ever more agog. Young directed three of the best Bond films - Dr No, From Russia With Love, Thunderball - and he'd assembled one of those all-star international cast the studios were very partial to back in the Sixties: James Mason played the Emperor Franz Joseph, Ava Gardner his Empress Elisabeth, Omar Sharif Crown Prince Rudolph, and Catherine Deneuve the Baroness Maria. The women have 1960s hairdos, and Ava doesn't look old enough to be Omar's mom, and Omar is entirely unconvincing as a prince driven by his love for the common man and his commitment to social reform in the Habsburg Empire - which is the film's apparent motivation for the double-suicide at Mayerling: Rudolph and his lover couldn't bear to live in a world without government welfare and universal health care.
Which, crazy as it sounds, is marginally less fanciful than the Broadway musical of Mayerling, Marinka. In Emmerich Kálmán's version, instead of being found dead at their hunting lodge, the star-crossed lovers emigrate to America and settle down on a farm in Pennsylvania. Hey, you can't beat a happy ending. The recent reconstruction of the live 1957 US TV production, with Mel Ferrer and Audrey Hepburn, isn't bad, but in the end I would have to account the 1936 French film version as the keeper. Charles Boyer can do the dissolute playboy prince, but also convey the sense of the world-historical tragedy of his appetites: Had Crown Prince Rudolph not died at his hunting lodge, the assassination at Sarajevo a quarter-century later would have been of no consequence. Incidentally, with the exception of Marinka, all variations of the tale nevertheless use the same one-word title: the word Mayerling resonates across the decades, at least in Central Europe.
Finally, let's spend a few moments with one of the sweetest royal romances of recent decades, and one highly appropriate for a regal union on Canada's Victoria Day weekend. Mrs Brown opened in 1997 a few days after the death of Prince Harry's mother, and seemed designed to invite parallels. John Madden's film even had the mid-19th century's equivalent of paparazzi - coarse men in loud check suits, pencils poised, secreted in the heather, in hopes of a long-distance glimpse of Queen Victoria and her alleged Highland fling, Mr John Brown. The brawny Scot, played by Billy Connolly, scatters the interlopers and gives one a kick in the thistles. The gossip, of course, continues.
Mrs Brown begins three years after the Prince Consort's death in 1861, with the Queen (played by Judi Dench, in the midst of her long reign as 007's M) still in deep mourning and everyone else at Court sunk in deep gloom. Our first sight of Victoria is the back of her head, the grey hair drawn into a bun. When the camera moves round to the front, her face is even greyer and more drawn; the eyes are dead. In these early scenes, her royal blues seem to have seeped into the very foundations of Osborne House.
At which point, like some Macbeth curse, a walking forest shows up at the palace. Connolly's Brown is essentially a thicket with a Scots accent: it's impossible, except in the nude scene, to tell where his facial hair ends and his sporran begins. By 'nude scene', I'm referring to Brown and his brother doing a little skinny-dipping off the Isle of Wight: the film is too discreet to speculate on whether the undoubted love of sovereign and servant found physical expression. As Sir Henry Ponsonby says to her doctor, after the Queen returns one night unusually flushed, "Don't even think it." (Surely a rather contemporary formulation?) On the other hand, Brown and Victoria quickly develop the kind of physical ease that today presupposes sexual knowledge. While everyone else is awed by the Queen-Empress, he is not: "Lift your foot, woman!" he barks, as he eases her into her stirrup.
Ostensibly, this is merely a kilted variation on The King and I or The Sound of Music: the breath of fresh air who liberates a stuffy household. Connolly himself evidently went to De Niroesque lengths for the part: after all, he spent much of the 1980s as gillie to Harry's uncle and aunt, the Duke and Duchess of York. His role here is as the big, expansive, emotional force in a Court of uptight ninnies. But, in its effort to transform the tale beyond a droll observation of a bizarre relationship, the film insists that Brown not only revitalized her home life but also persuaded the Queen to return to public duties: in one of the script's many curiosities, Victoria even starts referring to "my public", as if she were Marie Lloyd or Nellie Melba. Or George Clooney or Elton John.
The Queen's re-emergence marked the inauguration of the modern monarchy, as the physical, visible. embodiment of national identity - the start of the canny evolution which, in the Diana years, accelerated so disastrously out of control. But there's no evidence that it was anything to do with Brown. That's strictly a contemporary gloss - the assumption that a loosened-up royal leads to a liberated, loosened-up monarchy. In fact, if not in Madden's film, the real story of Victoria's long seclusion in the Highlands suggests the opposite: that personal fulfilment made it easier for her to ignore her public duties.
Still, there's a rueful charm to Connolly and Dench. In a scene both hilarious and tender, they go for dinner to a workers' cottage on the estate at Balmoral, and the Queen kindly offers to lay the table. She then stands helpless, the spoons hovering over the places, until Brown gives her a sly nod to indicate what goes where.
Any historical royal drama has its work cut out competing with more recent ones, and not just because contemporary royalty has offered up plot twists most self-respecting dramatists would shun. Mrs Brown has a tentativeness towards its royal characterizations which seems all the more amazing after the weeks of Harry'n'Meghan mega-hype in which the columns and airwaves have been filled with experts claiming to know the psychological impulses, sexual needs, marital intentions and parenting abilities of people they've never met and are never going to. Queen Victoria is a mystery, and, in the end, Madden's film is respectful enough to let her remain one. In doing so, it reminds those of who are subjects of the Crown that we were more mature back then: in the pre-celebrity era, we knew enough to know we didn't know them.
~Steyn will be back later this evening for Mark Steyn Club members with Part Two of our brand new, and somewhat topical, Tale for Our Time - Rudyard Kipling's The Man Who Would Be King.
In this anniversary season of The Mark Steyn Club, we would like to thank all those first-fortnight Founding Members who've decided to sign up for another year, and hope that our first-month Founding Members will want to do the same these coming two weeks. Club membership isn't for everybody, but it helps keep all our content out there for everybody, in print, audio, video, on everything from civilizational collapse to our Saturday movie dates. And we're proud to say that this site now offers more free content than ever before.
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24 Member Comments
It was strange seeing a 36 year old divorcée, older than the groom by 3 years, living with him common law, star of a tawdry TV soap opera be given the full royal spectacle wedding like a dewy eyed ingenue and precious princess instead of social climber from near hillybilly family origins. But she is an actress after all, and few women could resist that tiara. However, the virginal veil and 20 ft. train were a bit over the top for a second wedding.
The black content was unsubtle, especially the gospel choir and jiving preacher whom neither bride nor groom knew. He was apparently expressly imported on the recommendation of Barack Obama to sneak in a lecture on racism to a captive audience of British elites under the euphemism "love", complete with Martin Luther King quote. Obama as POTUS had previously gifted Queen Elizabeth with recordings of his own speeches in a British incompatible format so the black narcissism continues with its emphasis on skin color, the opposite of MLK's original message. With a mixed race ex-POTUS, new member of the royal family and richest woman in America Oprah in the audience, when are blacks going to admit they've arrived at their zenith in white countries, not in hopelessly mired Africa for which the new married couple have a fetish, wanting to spend their honeymoon there?
"Put your hand on the radio. Put your foot in the bathtub. FEEL the power of the Lord!" After that wedding, and that interminable sermon, I am very tempted.
Very well articulated Carol Ward. What a joke it was. I can not believe old Liz and that socialist Archbishop of Canterbury could let it be such a debacle. Did they not go through the wedding ceremony with them ? Did they not pre-read that disgusting rant of a sermon ? Did they not point out how inappropriate it would be ? Have they no influence at all, anymore ? Embarrassing, humiliating and disrespectful. No dignity or decorum there. Evident from the sour, fuming look on Liz's face and some royals trying to suppress derisive sniggering from behind their hands at how ridiculous it was. This is one Australian Commonwealth member who lost all respect for these modern so-called royals a long time ago.
I am just waiting for a member of Liz's family to marry a mohammedan and convert and try to drag the rest of the family with them. Given old, socialist Charlie's love of all things mohammedan, I give it thirty odd years - Camp of the Saints. What a prophetic book that is. Liz's ancestors must be spinning in their graves.
I could go on and on about the royal family's place in history and its very obvious fall from grace. But ultimately, I just don't know whether to laugh or cry.When faced with that dilemma, I usually choose the former.
Harry found a girl,
Just like the girl,
Who married dear old Dad.
At least as regards what was once quaintly thought of as "character". I have an idea for a new operetta - "The Pathetic Prince".
The joke is on old Lizzie - after a very public refusal to submit Harry to DNA testing - she signals her virtue and inclusiveness with this highborn hypocrisy - knowing her blood was not mixing with a half breed divorcee.
Such cunning. Yet the last laugh was on the sovereigns. What came next was a full gospel Black Revival... complete with lectures on race and slavery. IT WAS GLORIOUS.
It was a gleeful spectacle of freeze frame horror as cameras cut away to various faces during a surprisingly fiery, furious sermon - that went on and on and on and on - and on and on.
[then on some more]
Bro - Can I get a witness? - Black singers clapping and swaying. Oh happy day !!!
I thought this family was past its use date - but had they missed this - it would have deprived the planet of a well earned comeuppance. They were self evident prisoners - hoisted on their own tarnished petard, BLM Britain hijacked the wedding for a lesson in racial retribution. AGAIN ... GLORIOUS.
Chuckie, Camie, Phil and Liz....heads lowered, cursing Diana for this gift that keeps on giving. After this final episode and humiliation, there isn't enough Tarn-X on the planet to restore the blackened tiaras of Windsor.
Hallelujah.... I just love it so. This one's for you Di.
It's a shame the broom guy from the Apollo Theater didn't come racing out of the sacristy to chase that bishop off the altar. It was an inappropriate, insipid, and overlong mess of a sermon. The chapel is beautiful though, and I liked all the colourful hats the ladies wore.
Notice the difference between Bishop Michael Curry's mannerisms and speech when he started the sermon, and what he built up to? It certainly was a quite performance! Easy to see how the giggles started in the congregation— including the bride and groom— once the Blues Brothers scene came to mind.
Even funnier than the Reverend Cleophus James comparison was Arsenio Hall's Reverend Brown in "Coming to America": "I want you and that young man to tie that knot. And I'm gonna pray for you. And I want you to hold onto God's unchanging hand! He helped Joshua fight the battle of Jericho, He helped Daniel get out the lion's den, He helped Gilligan get off the island." The Power of Love!!
My kingdom for recessional music by Huey Lewis and the News!
.... with backflips and cartwheels by members of the congregation!
This was one royal wedding I had none, niente, nada interest in, but after reading your comment, I wish I had viewed at least parts. It was almost like I was there:)
Hey Mark
Spot on as always and entertaining to boot. Your insights into the mixing of the "Blood lines" also struck a chord for I found myself saying a prayer for the couple as I watched the vows, that they would be true to their vows. And the vows? Rich AND poor, better AND worse, Sickness AND health, till death. In talking of fidelity some years back with a loved one, we pondered where these vows came from, not Scripture, except the Death part, no Divorce. We concluded the Church prepared the vows to prepare the couple, WHAT? Are you,kidding me man? In today's vernacular. So, although they are not perfect as you pointed out, I hope they can turn around and walk the walk they vowed to each. Wow, wouldn't that be great for the "Blood line" of Britain.
Listened to a segment from the recent Rush show re "vicious rumours", and can't believe it hasn't been pointed out before! The likeness is undeniable: The One Man Global Content Provider and the Duke of Sussex. Front cover of "The [Un]documented" etc. Too funny!!!
That originated here, Kate, when a Steyn Club member asked if Harry knows he looks like Mark. :)
I assumed credit went to Mr Snerdley, who has been showing people their photos at parties. Must've missed the exchange here. Hilarious!
Mark,
Do you have any thoughts on today's nuptials?
The Royals are like an Appendix; functioning as an afterthought and not missed if gone.
Mark replies:
Steady on, Carol. Nine out of SteynOnline's top seventeen countries by readership are British Commonwealth members. I don't want to have to institute a Club oath of allegiance or anything...
Totally off-script, I noticed recently that Drudge no longer provides a hyperlink to SteynOnline. Is he suing you, too? Or, perhaps you're the baby with the bath water since the link to TakiMag was removed also.
Inquiring minds want to know the scoop. What's the buzz, tell me what's happening?
I visit TakiMag to read Theodore Dalrymple's articles.
Like visiting Playboy for the articles.
LOL!
That position is an article of faith for everyone that does the same. Their topical coverage is so thorough it's second to none and the subjects are so thought provoking that I often find myself reading between the lines to get to the real meaning. It's really a broadsheet publication at heart though so the online version is not really my type, although it does kind of click with some, I'll give them that.
I used to visit for the articles, but also to read all the comments made on Kathy Shaidle's articles to spare her from having to read every antisemitic whack job, nut bar comment those dumbasses always made, and let her know about the particularly egregious ones. The most ignorant Jew-hating comments were always made by such butch Internet warriors as PatriotFightGiveEmHell888, etc. In other words: cowards that let DA JOOOOZ live in their heads rent free.
No offense intended. Mark and Taki Mag were grouped together on the Drudge site. I merely wondered whether something occurred for both of these that got them banished. Taki is a "free-wheeling" site and, yes, they let their inner biases run amok. Not sure they're full-on anti-Semitic. Rather, they seem to be full-on agitators, much like the original National Lampoon. They want to be serious but I can't get past their idiocy when they try too hard. Never ever read the comments there; only here where the conversation is elevated.
Which reminds me of the Kinky Friedman description of Texans speaking about the Chosen People. When trying to be serious, they say "Jwish" as one syllable. When they're speaking normally, as you alluded, they say, "the JOOOOZ".