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by Christopher Kelly

McClatchy Newspapers

24 October 2006

In Stephen Frears’ great new film, “The Queen,” which is set in the tumultuous days following the death of Princess Diana in August 1997, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II (Helen Mirren) stares intently at the television in her private chambers, as news reporters recite a relentless and damning case against her.

Her country is in mourning, but Elizabeth has chosen to stay above the fray and to keep the royal family holed up at Balmoral, her estate in Scotland. Elizabeth’s subjects are appalled and then openly outraged by the queen’s absence in this time of national crisis; some even begin to suggest that it’s time for the monarchy to be abolished altogether. The situation gets graver by the minute, as the film takes on the texture of a thriller: Will Elizabeth heed the advice of Prime Minister Tony Blair (Michael Sheen) and return to Buckingham Palace to give her people the simple words of comfort they so need? Or will she wait too long—and lose all the respect and authority she’s spent half a century cultivating?

On its most basic level, “The Queen” is a gripping, bitingly funny take on one of the most surreal chapters of recent world history. Certainly, in the hours after Diana and Dodi Fayed died in a car crash in Paris’ Pont de l’Alma tunnel, no one could have imagined that the very future of the British monarchy would hang in the balance just one week later.

But it’s hard not to also see “The Queen” as an allegory that transcends national boundaries and political systems. Frears’ film shows us what happens when leaders lose touch with those they are leading; when they feel the ground shifting beneath their feet but can’t comprehend why. Those leaders inevitably cling to rules (Diana can’t possibly be given a state funeral because she’s no longer “officially” a member of the royal family) and protocol (a flag for Diana can’t possibly be flown at half-mast outside Buckingham Palace because that’s simply not how things are done), even if, by doing so, they’re further alienating their subjects—and all but guaranteeing that the entire system will collapse around them.

What makes “The Queen” especially intriguing is that it arrives alongside a number of other films about leadership and power, and their attendant temptations and trappings. In Sofia Coppola’s “Marie Antoinette,” Kirsten Dunst plays a queen even more cloistered than Elizabeth II, who becomes so consumed with fancy clothing, sumptuous food and courtly behavior that she doesn’t entirely realize she’s supposed to be leading a nation.

In the recently released “The Last King of Scotland,” James McAvoy plays a young doctor who falls under the spell of Ugandan dictator Idi Amin (Forest Whitaker), a man whose power was as mercurial as it was deadly.

And in this summer’s “The Devil Wears Prada,” Meryl Streep—playing a fictionalized version of real-life “Vogue” editor Anna Wintour—brilliantly showed us what it takes to climb to the top of the fashion-magazine world. The movie itself leaves tantalizingly open to debate the question of whether all of her sacrifices are worth it.

This spate of films feels like the inevitable cinematic response to current events, ranging from the Enron scandal to the handling of the war in Iraq. If, right now, they reflect an unease with leadership in Washington or corporate America, they also speak to our unending fascination with authority and power. We can’t stop yearning to climb inside the heads of those who rule over us.

What’s unexpected about this new strain of “power cinema” is its fundamentally empathetic portraits of leadership. Indeed, movies like “The Queen” and “The Devil Wears Prada” are products of the same power- and celebrity-obsessed culture that has turned “The Apprentice” into one of television’s top-rated shows. If anything, these movies are closest in spirit to those “Power Lists” published in magazines like Vanity Fair and Entertainment Weekly—which are at once snarky, worshipful and hyperanalytical. They illustrate why we’re all drawn to the most authoritative and commanding leaders; and they remind us that—as much as we might pretend otherwise—we’d all like to have a little bit of that authority and command ourselves.

Take “The Devil Wears Prada,” which unfolds through the eyes of Andy Sachs (Anne Hathaway), a bright, ambitious young writer who claims she has no interest in celebrities, parties or fashion. But as Andy goes to work for the insanely demanding magazine editor Miranda Priestley (Streep), she finds herself drawn ever deeper into a world of surface pleasures. In one giddy montage, director David Frankel shows Andy marching across the streets of Manhattan in a succession of gorgeous couture get-ups—thigh-high Chanel boots; an off-white angora coat by Yigal Azrouel; a brown cotton voile dress by Calvin Klein. To paraphrase Miranda herself, as she’s stepping out of a limousine and onto the red carpet of yet another party: Who wouldn’t want such a glamorous life?

When the movie was released in June, many critics accused “The Devil Wears Prada” of hypocrisy. “There’s something mealy-mouthed about the way the movie dangles all the goodies of worldly success before our eyes, then scolds its heroine for wanting to grab a little of that pleasure and power for herself,” wrote Dana Stevens in Slate.

That criticism misses the larger point. “The Devil Wears Prada” takes place in a very modern world, where capitalism has sunk its claws into all of us. Sure, we should know better than to embrace a system that rewards beauty over brains and glamour over sensibility. (Just as, in “The” “Queen,” the British public should know better than to endorse an antiquated system of government that rewards people solely because of their bloodline.) But we willingly submit ourselves to those systems: The pleasure of the fantasy—what might our own lives be like if we could walk in such gilded shoes?—more than outweighs the exacting cost of reality.

As the latest entry in the mini-genre known as “The Boss From Hell” movie (see also “Swimming With Sharks,” “Working Girl” and “9 to 5"), “The Devil Wears Prada” is immensely entertaining and witty—certainly the most enjoyable Hollywood movie of the year. It also makes for an unexpectedly fascinating double feature with “The Last King of Scotland,” which follows a young Scottish doctor named Nicholas Garrigan (McAvoy) as he travels to Uganda with the intent of helping poor villagers—but who ends up living in the ruthless dictator Amin’s palace and working as his personal physician.

Both films show us how easily our moral compasses are swayed in the face of luxury items (for Garrigan, it’s a shiny Mercedes instead of a Marc Jacobs bag) and what it’s like to work for a megalomaniac—the type of boss who demands complete fealty from his underling (and even then isn’t satisfied).

Perhaps most significant, both films show what it takes to achieve and sustain dominance, and why—once leaders have scratched their way to the top—it usually takes a bullet (or worse) to topple them.

Watch the very telling scene, late in “The Last King of Scotland,” where Amin tears into “Dr. Nicholas” for not arguing against his decision to expel all Asians from Uganda—a decision that earned Amin the wrath of international observers.

Dr. Nicholas had offered just such a warning a few days earlier.

“Yes,” Amin tells him, “but you didn’t persuade me.”

The most indomitable powerhouses, as “The Last King of Scotland” so cleverly illustrates, lead with a mixture of foresight and hindsight, at once demanding authority over everything and yet taking responsibility for nothing. In real life, Idi Amin spent years learning at the foot of his predecessor, Ugandan President Milton Apollo Obote, until the moment emerged that he could overthrow Obote and claim the presidency as his own. “The Last King” (which is based on a novel by Giles Foden) picks up shortly thereafter, portraying an Amin who is deeply aware of his precarious position and profoundly suspicious of everyone around him. For Amin to admit the slightest error—even to a close adviser like Garrigan, and even when that advisor is so obviously in the right—would be akin to painting a bull’s-eye on his own chest.

Power is the sole lifeblood of people like Amin, Elizabeth and Miranda Priestly. Stripped of their titles, they are less than nobody—they’re dead.

As easy as it is to see this new wave of films as a reflection of how fed up many have become with the old authoritarian models—note President George W. Bush’s historically low approval ratings and the lingering outrage over the Mark Foley scandal—the reality is that most of these movies have been in the works for years. (In the case of “The Last King of Scotland,” the producers had been trying to get it made since before Bush took office.)

But serendipity shouldn’t be ignored. Certainly, the enthusiastic reception all of these films has thus far enjoyed suggests there’s a cultural shift at work here: Moviegoers are suddenly keen on stories of leadership in crisis. ("The Devil Wears Prada” was a surprise blockbuster this summer, grossing $125 million; “The Queen” and “The Last King of Scotland” have both been performing strongly in limited release.)

In the swift and brilliant final section of “The Queen,” Elizabeth sits with Blair, who has been advising her through the crisis. Although her public image is suddenly tarnished, she’s determined to carry on. None too subtly, she lets Blair know that someday he, too, will be blindsided; that he’ll wake up and realize he’s lost touch with the electorate.

The message couldn’t be more timely, especially for those politicians facing an uphill battle for re-election in November. It couldn’t be more eternal, either. It’s the same message that runs through Greek tragedy, Shakespeare, Pulitzer Prize-winning novels like “All the King’s Men” and prime-time television soap operas like “Dallas” and “Dynasty”:

Power wouldn’t be half so intoxicating if it came with a lifetime guarantee. Just make sure to enjoy it while it lasts.

© 2006, Fort Worth Star-Telegram.