The Crown review – Union Jack-waving stuff and none the worse for it

The third series of the jewel in Netflix’s Crown begins economically and wittily. The Queen, formerly played by Claire Foy and now portrayed by Olivia Colman, is invited to view a new collection of stamps, which show her changed appearance. Even as one is vaguely reminded of the regeneration scenes in Doctor Who, Colman-as-Elizabeth deals with the various ministrations of her courtiers (including the excellent David Rintoul and Charles Edwards) briskly and unsentimentally. She describes herself as an “old bat” and indicates that she will be a different kind of monarch to her predecessor, even as she plays the same person. Colman’s Queen is more withdrawn and more regal, even if she is, unmistakably, “Olivia Colman”, whereas Foy had the advantage of relative obscurity: a status exploited by the producers, who paid her less than her better-known co-star Matt Smith, and which led to enormous controversy.

By now, anyone watching Peter Morgan’s series knows what to expect. After a surprisingly shaky first season, the second grew into its stride with a series of consistently well-conceived and gripping hour-long mini-films (The Nazi past of Edward, Duke of Windsor! JFK! & Jackie K! A teenage Prince Charles at Gordonstoun! Stephen Ward!) that had both significant emotional resonance and managed to make the historical period all but burst from the screen, aided by a vast budget that bought the very best out of above and below-the-line talent.

This time round, the programme has found itself caught between two distinct narratives. The first few episodes feel like a logical continuation of the first and second series. The theme of political skulduggery is returned to in the opener, Olding, which explores whether the new Prime Minister Harold Wilson (as played, with suitably bluff decency, by Jason Watkins) is a Russian spy, and introduces a splendidly serpentine Samuel West as Anthony Blunt, who definitely is. The second, Margaretology, allows Helena Bonham-Carter’s Princess Margaret to come to the fore, as she and her husband Lord Snowdon (Ben Daniels, replacing Matthew Goode) are roped in to try and (metaphorically) seduce LBJ into giving the UK much-needed financial aid. And the deeply affecting third episode, Aberfan, deals with the horrendous Aberfan disaster of 1966, and the Queen’s emotionally illiterate response, which gives Colman the opportunity to show her upper lip at full stiffness and which will probably win her another Golden Globe.

All of these are well mounted, as usual, but there is a strange sense of flatness to some of the writing, as if Morgan had had to rush through his storylines. The exchanges come heavily burdened with symbolism and exposition – Blunt is revealed in his treacherous true colours as he makes a speech about concealment in art – and not all of the switches in casting are wholly successful. Daniels, while excellent in Aberfan, otherwise lacks Goode’s charm, coming across as merely irritable (although anyone married to Margaret could hardly be blamed for that) and the reappearances of John Lithgow as Winston Churchill (one scene, on his deathbed) and Pip Torrens as the Royal Family’s eminence grise Tommy Lascelles, albeit in flashback, tacitly acknowledge the irreplaceability of those fine actors. And, at the risk of sacrilege, Colman cannot eclipse memories of Foy, although Tobias Menzies, as Prince Philip, is a significant upgrade over Matt Smith.

And then matters shift significantly later in the series, clearly anticipating 2020’s fourth instalment, with none other than Gillian Anderson as Margaret Thatcher – perhaps the most brilliant casting decision so far. The appearance of Josh O’Connor as a young, angry Prince Charles gives the programme a new protagonist, and, crucially, a more youthful dynamic, as he rails against protocol and tries to carve out a niche for himself. Some might argue that, half a century on, nothing has changed. There are parallels to the present day, some entirely serendipitous; episode four’s Bubbikins, which shows the humiliation that the Royal Family endured when Prince Philip decided to expose them to the pitiless scrutiny of a BBC documentary crew, has gained in resonance with the similar debacle of last week’s Newsnight interview with Prince Andrew, although it is a sign of the times that what passed for scandal in 1966 (the Royals drink gin and tonics while watching television) and what scandalises us today (Pizza Express in Woking, being medically unable to sweat, etc) are very different.

And that, perhaps, is why The Crown continues to beguile, even despite growing signs of a clunkiness in the writing that, at times, comes across as unfortunately reminiscent of late period Downton Abbey. More than once, Morgan uses the dramatic device of some foreshadowed disaster being avoided by quick thinking or a simple display of personal charm, which, for a programme which indicates a healthy display of scepticism about the monarchy, occasionally comes close to a rather simple conclusion: that if we trust in the essential goodness of those who rule us, all will be alright in the end.

Perhaps this is the ultimate argument against republicanism, as evidenced by the show. While we might become excited at the idea of saving the millions of pounds that the royal family costs us, and even more thrilled at the ability to hive off the more disreputable members of “the Firm” into far-flung ambassadorships, from which no return is possible, we also look to “the first family” to act as a symbolic representation of our hopes and ideals, even as we thrill to dramatized accounts of their failings and shortcomings. Thus, while The Crown remains essential viewing, it is tempting to suspect that Morgan, like so many other sceptics, has been at least half-seduced by the trappings and proximity of monarchy. It will be fascinating to see if this holds true in future series, but for the time being, this is Union Jack-waving, National Anthem-singing stuff, and none the worse for it.