3.5 stars. Rated PG-13, and too harshly, for dramatic elements and mild profanity
By Derrick Bang
History is laden with fascinating
incidents and anecdotes, and — here’s the amazing thing — more pop up all the
time.
You’d think, given the tireless
methodology of modern research, that we’d have uncovered pretty much everything
by now. Chances are, not even close.
Case in point: The unlikely, all
but unknown — and (deliberately) mostly concealed — camaraderie that bonded
Britain’s Queen Victoria and a former Muslim Indian clerk named Abdul Karim. The
saga came to light in 2010, with the publication of research journalist
Shrabani Basu’s Victoria & Abdul: The
True Story of the Queen’s Closest Confidant; the details were assembled
from the hitherto undiscovered journals of both Abdul and Victoria, the latter
written in Hindustani Urdu (!).
The narrative immediately
demanded even wider exposure, and this thoughtful big-screen translation comes
courtesy of director Stephen Frears: an apt choice, given the similar sensitivity
he brought to the depiction of Elizabeth II, in 2006’s The Queen. Scripter Lee Hall has adapted Basu’s book with grace and
the sly wit at which the British excel, particularly when they’re poking gentle
fun at themselves.
The thoroughly captivating result
is anchored by the venerable Judi Dench, taking a second crack at the role she
first played in 1997’s Mrs. Brown
(which, rather intriguingly, details a similarly “imprudent” incident in Queen
Victoria’s life). But while Dench dominates this new film — how could she not?
— Ali Fazal also deserves credit for the elegance with which he has brought an
equally compelling character to life.
This is late during Queen
Victoria’s reign, when she has become — in her own words — fat, lame,
cantankerous and impotent (along with several other marvelous pejoratives that
I couldn’t jot down quickly enough). The regal routine, and life itself, have
become tedious things to be endured, rarely enjoyed. She suffers fools not at
all, let alone gladly; each day begins with chiding admonitions about diet and
“movement” from the royal physician, Dr. Reid (Paul Higgins).
Dench always has excelled at
withering glances, and they get plenty of exercise here. Victoria is well aware
of the obsequious jockeying that takes place behind closed doors, as her many
children — led by heir apparent Bertie (Eddie Izzard) — and court hangers-on
curry favor and snipe at each other. No conversation comes close to actual
candor; she can’t trust anybody to be sincere, and she’s well aware that
everybody is waiting for her to die.
But she also rules a sizable
chunk of the world, her various titles including Empress of India. As a result,
the many honors bestowed upon Victoria during her Golden Jubilee year — 1887,
when this film begins — include the presentation of a ceremonial gold coin by
two men who’ve been brought all the way from India for this task: Abdul and
Mohammed Buksh (Adeel Akhtar).
The presentation takes place
during a lavish court dinner, the condescending instructions curt and specific:
Bow, offer the coin on its special pillow, back away — still bowing — and
disappear. But the awed, impressionable 24-year-old Abdul can’t help breaking
one of the many strict rules: He makes eye contact with Victoria.
Who, in Dench’s subtle manner,
radiates curiosity and ... something else. Perhaps a grain of surprised
respect, having realized that this handsome young stranger has broken protocol.
Indeed, Fazal’s Abdul is every
bit as good-looking as archive photos of the man himself. Fazal thus is given
the expansive and “respected” role, while Akhtar’s Mohammed is present mostly
for one-dimensional comic relief: pained expressions and caustic gibes at the
“barbarism” of the British.
One thing leads to another, and
suddenly Abdul and Mohammed’s brief visit blossoms into a lengthy stay: much to
the latter’s displeasure, frequently suffering in the biting cold of a British
winter and their unheated accommodations. Mohammed also doesn’t approve,
regarding his luckier companion as a sell-out who is cheerfully willing to
climb as many rungs of the “stinky, creaking ladder of the shitty British
empire” as the situation will allow.
But if Mohammed merely
disapproves, Bertie and the rest of Victoria’s closest advisors are apoplectic,
particularly when she makes Abdul her “Munshi” (teacher) and grants him all
manner of privileges. The two become inseparable, in great part because
Victoria feels that she can be a “regular person” in Abdul’s company; he makes
no demands of her, and lacks the status to expect any.
Thus begins the fascinating dance
within Hall’s deft script. Although focused on the rapidly blossoming and
sweetly cherished — but thoroughly platonic — bond between Victoria and Abdul,
Hall is coyly ambiguous about the latter’s actual motivations. Is Abdul
genuinely principled, kind and guileless, or is he subtly crafting his rising
stature, taking advantage of the situation?
And does that really matter,
given that he and Victoria both value — and benefit from — their companionship?
Frears carefully crafts Fazal’s
performance to leave us guessing. At times, the man is too good to be true;
then again, perhaps he’s merely modeling himself as the trusted friend that his
“Empress” wishes him to be. It’s a fascinating role.
Although Hall’s script frequently
holds Bertie and numerous other British aristocrats up for gentle scorn — we
love it each time Dench’s Victoria waspishly, imperiously, puts them in their
place, for daring to defy her — our easy chuckles take on a nervous hue as the
years pass, and the film slides into its third act. These people do not react well to being embarrassed, and
we begin to worry about the smoldering hatred directed ever more frequently —
if always silently — in Abdul’s direction.
Some viewers also may become annoyed
by this film’s revisionist undertone. Victoria’s growing fascination with All
Things India — a large portion of her interest in Abdul — is treated as a
measure of cultural respect, which is at odds with the brutal repression
simultaneously taking place in India, under the British Empire’s merciless
thumb. The dichotomy is a bit troubling, as we’re left to wonder whether
Victoria is naïvely unaware of what’s happening in India — which seems unlikely
— or simply untroubled by her hypocrisy.
In interviews, Basu has insisted
that this was a relationship of equals, but — as the film proceeds — we can’t
help feeling that Abdul is little different than a lavishly dressed zoo
creature, allowed access to (among other royal dwellings) the opulent, but still
restrictive, comfort of the newly commissioned Indian wing of Victoria’s
beloved Osborne House, on the Isle of Wight. This uncertainly definitely adds a
layer of intrigue to Frears’ film.
Olivia Williams and Fenella
Woolgar are deliciously fluttery, condescending and spiteful as, respectively,
Lady Churchill and her constant companion, lady-in-waiting Miss Phipps. They’re
like the wicked step-sisters from “Cinderella”: almost figures of pity, in
their helpless wrath. (Almost.)
Tim Pigott-Smith is equally
memorable as the hapless Sir Henry Ponsonby, Victoria’s longtime secretary, who
finds himself shunted aside when the Queen prefers to have Abdul at her side
each day, as she tackles the contents of “the box.” (American fans of The Crown will know what that actually
involves; newcomers may be somewhat mystified.) Poor Sir Henry too frequently
winds up in the middle, between Victoria and Bertie; Pigott-Smith handles this
discomfort with pluperfect British aplomb.
Michael Gambon is appropriately
larger than life as the imperious Lord Salisbury. Izzard, finally, leaves no
doubt that Bertie is not to be trifled with ... and that he’ll carry grudges.
His stern gaze grows increasingly worrisome.
The film’s technical credits are
sumptuous, with high marks going to production designer Alan Macdonald, for the
fidelity with which he and his team recreated the opulence of key settings in
England and Scotland, along with the intimacy of Victoria’s favorite island
retreat, Glassalt Shiel. Costume designer Consolata Boyle was kept equally
busy, with both traditional British garb and Indian finery.
Thomas Newman’s delicate
orchestral score is so subtle that it frequently seems to vanish, which — in
one respect — is the highest compliment bestowed upon a film composer. Frears
doesn’t manipulate our emotions with overstated musical flourishes; he lets the
drama, and the performers, carry the film.
All this said, Victoria and Abdul will appeal mostly to
avowed fans of British filmmaking and storytelling, with its measured pacing,
understated performances and dry wit. Be advised: Frears’ film proceeds slowly.
As captivating as Dench, Fazal and their co-stars are, there’s a Masterpiece Theater atmosphere of exaggerated
dignity that’ll probably make it a tough sell, on this side of the pond.
More’s the pity.
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