Spencer – first-look review | Little White Lies

Festivals

Spencer – first-look review

03 Sep 2021

Words by David Jenkins

Person wearing red coat and black hat, looking pensively out of window.
Person wearing red coat and black hat, looking pensively out of window.
Kris­ten Stew­art excels in this psy­cho­log­i­cal por­trait of Princess Diana, but a heavy-hand­ed script lets things down.

With films such as Tony Manero and Post Mortem, Chilean film­mak­er Pablo Lar­raín has made a name for him­self as a pur­vey­or of bleak sur­veys of life under dic­ta­tor­ship con­di­tions that fore­ground ter­ror, oppres­sion and sud­den violence.

With Spencer, his strange psy­cho­log­i­cal fable about the late Diana Spencer over an espe­cial­ly tense Christ­mas sea­son at the roy­al San­dring­ham estate, he presents the British monar­chy as a daffy total­i­tar­i­an enclave, steeped in tra­di­tions which only serve to extend their old world shelf life and fil­ter them out from the plebs. It is an under­state­ment to say that many liv­ing roy­als – includ­ing the cur­rent regent – do not come off well in this film.

The lit­tle white mouse in the maze of inhu­mane her­itage think­ing is Kris­ten Stewart’s per­fect­ly-accent­ed and effort­less­ly glam­orous Diana, and the film charts her var­i­ous strained attempts to break free of these sti­fling con­di­tions. There are wicked whis­pers that she has cracked”, and even the cur­tains have been sewn shut to stop the paparazzi from spy­ing on her. The place­ment of a biog­ra­phy of Anne Boleyn by her bed­side leads to spec­tral visions of the behead­ed damsel, and the film asks us to ques­tion whether Diana’s frayed mind­set is jus­ti­fied under the circumstances.

The script by Steven Knight is prob­lem­at­ic from the get-go, packed with lots of wink­ing pop psy­chol­o­gy and on-the-nose por­tent, and clear­ly writ­ten with future tragedy in mind. Its main infrac­tion, though, is that it is often wit­less and banal, leav­ing Lar­raín and the actors to hero­ical­ly milk the dra­ma from a string of inter­ac­tions that are either over­stuffed with mean­ing”, or just death­ly dull.

On paper Stewart seemed like an eccentric casting choice, yet she slinks into the material with grace and ease.

The notion that Diana har­boured a not-so-secret desire for mid­dle class nor­mal­cy and was dri­ven to mad­ness by so much pomp, pageantry and silent abuse is not exact­ly a new rev­e­la­tion. And yet the film oper­ates as if it has stum­bled onto box-fresh insights, which in turn leaves you wait­ing to dis­cov­er what the real take is. And it nev­er comes.

Unlike the mael­strom of emo­tions in Larraín’s pre­vi­ous, and sim­i­lar­ly-cal­i­brat­ed celebri­ty por­trait pic, Jack­ie, this one is slow­er, lin­ear and more aus­tere, bet­ter to fit the gen­teel and reg­i­ment­ed-to-death con­text of a Yule­tide with Her Majesty. On paper Stew­art seemed like an eccen­tric cast­ing choice, yet she slinks into the mate­r­i­al with grace and ease, and her trade­mark arse­nal of half-met glares and anx­i­ety-dashed gri­maces per­fect­ly express her des­per­ate yearn­ing to be free of pret­ti­fied toff prison. Her inter­ac­tions with Sal­ly Hawkins’ bowl-cut­ted per­son­al dress­er, Mag­gie, are an obvi­ous highlight.

The film recalls both Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette, in its ele­gant­ly decked-out dis­sec­tion of clois­tered enti­tle­ment, and Stan­ley Kubrick’s The Shin­ing, in its depic­tion of a per­son being dri­ven stir crazy by her claus­tro­pho­bic sur­round­ings (as well as being bul­lied by her hus­band). The lat­ter com­par­i­son is empha­sised by Jon­ny Greenwood’s bril­liant but some­times heavy-hand­ed score which deft­ly com­bines prim, din­ner­time min­uettes with clang­ing aton­al dirges.

Spencer is a sad and hope­less film, and it shows the point where Diana can now see through the plat­i­tudes that have helped her sur­vive so far. It’s also hard to tru­ly under­stand the nature of Diana’s trag­ic melt­down with­out first know­ing that she was once hap­py – some­thing that the film pur­pose­ly omits. There are some moments of euphor­ic release in the lat­ter stages, a lit­tle like when Mar­i­lyn Cham­bers escapes the Leather­face house at the end of The Texas Chain Saw Mas­sacre, but again, the feel like grist to tragedy porn mill, writ­ten only with heart­break­ing hind­sight in mind.

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