The Crown

There was a month when this show was the talk of the office, which always puts me off slightly when it comes to delving into a new boxset.  However, one evening, my housemate’s girlfriend suggested she might like to watch it.  As chief user of the TV, I was very happy to grant this wish so I could alleviate my guilt at being the remote controller dictator (this cropped up when discussing Mr Robot here).  As a dual viewing occasion, it seemed like the perfect show that couples can watch together (something which we simulated for this experience by the simple fact we were one man and one woman and in no other ways a couple).  For her, there’s romance and dresses and jewels and that.  For him, there are important historical facts and jingoistic nostalgia for a bygone empire. But it’s 2017 and we are beyond telling people what they will like about a programme based on their gender, so please delete the last two sentences from your eyes.  I can’t believe I even typed them out.  Maybe they reflect a 2007 version of this country that still persists in certain regions outside of my central London media bubble.

The Crown is ambitious, to say the very least.  Each scene is formed from piles and piles of money.  Shot on location, the producers seem to think nothing of having countless extras and vehicles appear to pad out our sense of place (for example, Kenya), only for them to be in shot for just a few seconds before we drill down into the drama, normally behind some closed doors in the corner somewhere.  In this golden age of TV, Hollywood-level budgets reflect the increased quality of all other elements: concepts, scripts, cast etc.  The viewing experience is therefore sumptuous and we can luxuriate in it as if we were members of the royal family ourselves.

For that matter, The Crown isn’t simply Queen Liz: The Early Years, a blow by blow historical account of the world’s longest reigning monarch (who is also still alive; awkward).  If we remove the fact that it’s loosely based on real events, potentially even imagining that Great Britain is some mythical kingdom (just as we so willingly do with Westeros), then the tightly woven plot of power plays, intrigue and familial tension is enough to grip and never let go as we watch a young woman come to terms with the death of her father and the foisting upon her of an office greater than any individual could possibly be.  Once you add in the fact that these are all household names, you’re on to an absolute winner.  And think how this feels to older generations who remember these events for realsies.  I had to Google to check that some of the Princess Margaret stuff really happened, as it just seemed so implausible that it could have been only decades ago.

Even though these are real people, the cast’s portrayals are so much deeper than mere impersonation.  John Lithgow’s Winston Churchill seems at first to be cantankerous caricature, but as we journey into each layer of this profoundly complex being, he palpably comes to life and elicits inordinate sympathy.  The royals themselves seem enormous fun to play – you can see the knowing sparkles in Claire Foy’s eyes as she puts down Matt Smith’s Prince Philip (who is the best use of Matt Smith’s face I have ever seen).  Just to be able to deliver so many lines in such a plummy accent is surely every actor’s dream.

Needless to say, my housemate’s girlfriend raced through the series, but I saved them for Sunday evenings to fill the Downton Abbey void in my life.  A word of warning is that the episodes vary in length.  This is Netflix, so there is no slot in a commissioner’s schedule to stick to – the content can be as long as it needs to be.  Sometimes it’s over an hour, sometimes it’s under, but either way, The Crown is near perfect telly.