As monarchy biopics go, Mary, Queen of Scots does its best to stay in familiar territory. (Or, as one critic puts it, rather more harshly, "indulges in every threadbare period-film trope.") The fictionalized secret meeting between the two queens is a dramatic device going back to Schiller; the gendering of the pair, with Elizabeth as "masculine" and Mary as "feminine," goes back even further (arguably back to the lifetimes of the queens themselves); the conflict between private romance and public duty is a staple of the form; even the moment of prophecy at the end has been popular in representations of the Tudors and Stuarts since Shakespeare and Fletcher (who pull this off at the end of Henry VIII). Unfortunately, I don't remember whether or not I've seen the previous Mary, Queen of Scots biopic, but its trailer indicates that its 2018 descendant has borrowed the mise-en-scene for the moment when Darnley is forced to sign off on Riccio's death. Strictly speaking, the only real nod to experimentation here is the color-blind casting for supporting actors and extras.
For this viewer, at least, the film's key problem is Mary herself--and, for that matter, what I felt was a discrepancy between the film's purported and actual approaches to her behavior. On the one hand, the film represents Mary as the modern ideal of royalty: she valorizes emotional authenticity over realpolitik; yearns for real love (and sex, with ironic consequences); tries to model toleration for her subjects; makes a point of connecting with the common people; attempts to make proto-feminist (albeit monarchist) common cause with Elizabeth; and so on. All of this is in contrast to the performative, insistently celibate, and increasingly made-up Elizabeth, who breaks down only rarely into raw emotional expression. (Notably, Mary spends a lot more time out in nature than Elizabeth does; even Holyrood is rough-hewn out of rock.) On the other hand, the film is also stuck with the real Mary's political acumen, or lack thereof, and so it's hard to avoid the conclusion that she self-inflicts more wounds than those suffered by poor Riccio. Despite the explicit "men, amirite?" tone of the dialogue, Mary's brother James spends most of the film being correct. No, Mary should not tick off John Knox (who seems badly in need of shampoo); no, Mary should certainly not marry Darnley; yes, marrying Darnley will blow up the Anglo-Scottish detente that James has worked so hard to achieve. While Mary's decision to spare James' life (pesky historical reality again) comes across as yet another example of emotional authenticity, not to mention Christian forgiveness, one can't help noticing that Bothwell has reason to be exasperated. For that matter, Mary's complete misunderstanding of Bothwell's behavior sums up her utter failure as a politician, let alone a monarch. Mary's "authenticity" consistently prevents her from listening to or learning from her brother, even though he has actually been running things for years. It keeps her from judging Darnley's character (the film makes him more of a weasel than even the real Darnley, which is saying something). And it makes her incapable of grasping that Bothwell, her apparently loyal protector, is as much on the make as anyone else. Her climactic encounter with Elizabeth--a.k.a. the person with the upper hand--is a mind-boggling miscalculation of epic proportions. ("Shut up, Mary," wails the viewer, as Mary shoots herself thoroughly in the foot with a cannon.) Was the irony of the ending, in which a guy ascends the throne and everything is fine, really intended by the filmmakers?
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