The King's Speech

A truly terrible poster, no?

Filmed with tremendous respectability, refinement, and fussiness, The King's Speech, director Tom Hooper's endearing historical footnote, comes prettily packaged and awards baited, in a style that only the one and only Harvey Weinstein could fully get away with.  The film, fully in line, and indeed a throwback to the mid-90s regime of prime Oscar-bait films Weinstein's previous company, Miramax, often produced, there's a stateliness, as well as novelty to The King's Speech, a masterly pedigreed example of cinematic refinement.  There's really very little to hate in this very-British royalty porn\beating adversity biopic, there's quite a bit to like-- the finely clipped performances from actors who have been down this road before, the nicely textured filmmaking aesthetic from the director of HBO's bravura history lesson John Adams, the gently comedic rhythms from a nicely tailored screenplay (written by David Seidler), the unobtrusive, nicely calibrated musical score.  However, there's little to love; little to stand and cheer about, or get all hot and bothered about.  It's based on a true story, that of King George XI, and his unfortunate stammer, set in a pre-WWII England where his voice was needed most, and when the invention of radio changed the guard from a royalty to become more of a performer than a portrait.  It's true that history may sometimes be unsurprising, but historical films don't have to be staged that way.

Yet somehow, every beat of The King's Speech has a been-there-done-that quality, a connect the dots styling that, while pleasant and in many moments very enjoyable, feels a bit too old hat.  At first we meet "Bertie," the nickname to George VI (Colin Firth), an old-fashioned, disgruntled Duke with a horrible stammer.  His wife, the gently charming Elizabeth, future Queen Mum is played by Helena Bonham Carter, in a return to the land of royals and period productions after her sojourn the past few years of being loyalist to  Tim Burton's cartoons.  The impediment is devastating, one which has afflicted him since his earliest memory, and after a plethora of doctors and treatments, he's understandably disgruntled.  There's a nice comic scene early on, where a quack tells "Bertie" to smoke cigarettes to help the throat muscles and that jamming marbles in his mouth is an effective treatment.  As a sidenote, this may be the first film I've ever seen that taps into the anxiety-inducing fear of public speaking.

Hope comes in the form of a Australian speech therapist, named Lionel Logue (played with vigor by Geoffrey Rush, in a showy, unsubtle, but nicely focused turn of which will surprise no one familiar with his body of work.)  Logue's unorthodox techniques, and confessional, nearly psycho-analyzing style unnerves "Bertie." as a royal family member, and stuffy Brit.  Yet the challenge of accepting the ingratiating Aussie as equal, and surrendering to his comical ways starts to yield results, and a great friendship.  The easy-going, lighthearted charm of the chemistry between Firth and Rush is without question the highlight of the film, nicely balanced with Rush's ham is Firth's inherit integrity and reserve.  It's when the film goes outside their relationship that the spark in The King's Speech starts to falter a bit-- there's a nifty, perhaps even great minor movie in the idea of a stammering future king and kooky speech therapist; it's almost a weirdly effective turn on the buddy comedy formula.

Yet this being an awards contender of a film, there must be added heft, here being the imminent approach of WWII, and the procedural show of how King George became king-- due to the controversial advocacy of his older brother Edward (Guy Pearce), who chose love over the throne in the eyes of a twice-divorced American; a Church of England no-no.  The plotline, while essential, to the narrative feels especially the dullest, despite the always welcome participation of Guy Pearce.  What's left is a king without a voice, desperately in need to communicate with his countrymen, while stock of footage of Hitler, noted for his fine, authoritative speaking skills plays in the background.

There's simple subversion at work in The King's Speech, one point I sort of wish was expanded, the idea of royalty leading a country at the time when a mass communication was starting to take shape.  The idea of king, not only required to action, as call to duty, but to perform, and even in a way, entertain his nation.  It feels especially relevant in the viral age where public servants must play the part, more so than actually be competent at their jobs.  The idea therefore, was that the generation before King George XI, needed have worried about a speech impediment for public approval, just some candid good publicity and few gentle poses.  King George XI needs to play the part, speak it, and sell the idea of a war on his nation.  It's the one thread of the all-too tidy screenplay that feels contemporary.

Yet the films enters the final stretch in purely pleasurable but familiar strides.  Lessons are learned, friendships made, Carter wears pretty hats, all on route to the rote, but rousing conclusion.  At this point, it's really just the inevitable, grand, crowd-pleasing moment where "Bertie" becomes King George VI, addressing and calming the frightening nation, via radio broadcast.  The scene is stirring because Firth sells it with utmost precision, delicate, but with essential gravitas.  However, something still feels missing.  The spark is gone, and The King's Speech remains nothing more than a refined piece of work; what's missing is a palpable emotional current connecting the prim and proper with passionate consummation.  B