The Queen’s accession seemed to herald a fresh start for Britain. But as politics became more squalid, her bland persona was a good match for the monarchy’s survival instinct, says playwright David Hare
Until the Lord Chamberlain lost his power to censor the theatre in 1968, the two most surefire parts in the repertory were held to be Hamlet and Hedda Gabler. However unsuited or inadequate the actor, however weak the production, it was almost impossible for anyone to appear in the title roles without achieving lift-off. You couldn’t fail. The audience moved towards your dilemmas, almost unbidden. But since impersonations of living royalty were first permitted, and with performers as varied as Pam Ferris, Prunella Scales, Diana Quick and Claire Foy all enjoying successive triumphs, actors now agree that playing the part of Queen Elizabeth II has become the most infallible gig of the lot.
It’s not hard to see why. There is nothing more satisfying than playing a part where the audience does nine-tenths of the work for you. It was partly in the character, and partly in the function awarded to Elizabeth Windsor that, from adolescence onwards, she chose to express herself as little as possible. Whereas we have an all-too-clear idea of exactly who Boris Johnson is, and, for that matter, of who Tony Blair is, the Queen spent more than 70 years perfecting her technique of hiding her thoughts. In dramatic narrative, nothing is more powerful than the withholding of information. It’s only inexperienced performers who ask for more words. As film-maker Alexander Mackendrick observed, a long speech explaining motivation will not make the audience feel closer to a character. Rather, it will make them feel that the character is alarmingly prone to self-pity – and will drive them away.
