5 October 2017
Victoria and Abdul
A film by Stephen Frears
reviewed by J.R. Thomas
The Shaw Sheet is never one to rush to judgement in its critical considerations; our film reviews tend to appear when the film under fire is about to leave the circuit, just clinging on to matinees in the Curzon Chelsea and in its last two days in the few remaining Odeons in the suburbs of northern Leeds. But at least we can give you some guidance as to whether you should be paying £5.95 on Netflix and the cost of a Deliveroo Indian for two before settling down to battle with the remote and the mango chutney. An Indian supper would indeed be entirely appropriate for this week’s offering which is Victoria and Ahmed, directed by Stephen Frears. Actually, a plateful of old ham might be an equally appropriate gastronomic accompaniment to this movie, but we will come to that.
The film has had very extensive advertising which seems to have paid off; it has had a good run for what was never likely to be a film appealing to the younger segment of modern audiences. This observation is not just a random thought by your correspondent; a careful survey of the eager viewers in a half-filled smaller screens at a well-known chain (no more free advertising for you, Curzon) suggested that the audience was 7.5% male, and that of the 92.5% which was female, or at least dressed to appear to be of that gender, 75% appeared to be aged over fifty. And, to be very ungallant, well fed, like the great Queen Empress herself.
This is the tale of Abdul Karim, sent to England to present an Indian coin to Victoria. Here we must pause and take a step back. The film begins with a warning that the events about to be shown are a true story. “Mostly”, the sub title adds. “Partly in part” or “Based on, roughly” might have been equally funny and a more accurate description. The adjustment of boring historical facts begins early; it was Victoria’s idea that she should have a couple of Indian servants so that she could learn more about the land of which Disraeli, in a stunningly skilled piece of PR, had had her recently promoted to Empress. They served her first at a private breakfast, not at a state banquet at which the Queen speaks to no one and goes to sleep over the fish course. And so we might go on, but we are not here to carp, much, and certainly the general tale is true enough.
Abdul was tall and good looking and the Queen, not unaverse to handsome men, made him into her “Munshi”, a personal attendant who would be a member of her inner household. Her Indians were thought to be Hindu but in some indictment of the understanding of colonial civil servants turned out to be Moslem. The Munshi taught the Queen Islamic versions of the history and the fables of India, and later Urdu; as with her Scottish ghillie, John Brown, she became exceptionally close to him, though in reality he did make several prolonged trips back to India. There was much tittle-tattle about Brown and the Munshi both, but one suspects, and the film suggests, the Queen enjoyed having somebody outside political and court circles that she could talk freely to. Judi Dench magnificently plays once again Queen Victoria, repeating her John Brown piece of twenty years ago; most of the population of the UK must by now think Dame Judi is Queen Victoria. Tim Pigott-Smith in his last role played Sir Henry Ponsonby, the Queen’s private secretary, Ali Fazal plays the Munshi, Michael Gambon is the Marquess of Salisbury, her last Tory Prime Minister, and even Simon Callow makes a cameo appearance as Puccini. The film is beautifully shot, the locations magnificent (Osbourne House playing itself), the atmosphere is generally lush and Victoriana runs frothingly and frillilly riot at all times.
The film begins as a comedy, sort of, as the playful note at the beginning suggests. But it never seems quite sure if it is or not. It has been much criticised in those newspapers which are not great fans of the British Empire for white-washing the Empire (the Independent’s film critic used that phrase apparently without conscious irony) and for making Her Majesty out to be a misleading cross between Gandhi and Nehru, a bizarre suggestion which insults Dench’s subtle and fine portrayal (it should be, she is Queen Victoria after all).
What does deserve some lambasting (here comes the carping again, but we have to) is the playing of some of the supporting cast. We forgive Callow for light sliced ham in his comic opera version of an Italian composer, but what is unforgivable is the really serious whole back leg of bacon of Eddie Izzard as the Prince of Wales, Bertie, Edward VII in waiting, who if this portrayal is to be believed was the father of all pantomime villains, a Sir Jasper to end all Sir Jaspers. The Prince had many faults but the boorish rudeness shown here was not him. And Izzard is too damned thin – the Prince’s nickname was Tum-tum, after all. Was the part scripted this way or was Izzard allowed his own interpretation?
Which really is where the whole movie falls over. This is Victorian history set up for the twenty first century. Racialist stupid courtiers radiating evil against a sweet old lady of impeccably politically correct beliefs and behaviour and her innocent kindly humble Indian manservant. What an appalling lot the Victorians were, we are meant to say. Apart from Queen Judi of course. Frears is one of our most distinguished and thoughtful film makers, but here he has had history cut and pruned and planed and filed to make a good story line that will not perplex modern audiences and will politely bow to, if not completely walk backwards in front of, modern prejudices.
Abdul was Munshi for fifteen years, from 1887 to Victoria’s death in 1901. Not in this film which appears to telescope the action into, at most, a year or so. Salisbury is Prime Minister the whole time, nobody except HM ages (going into a rapid decline in the last ten minutes), just one English winter seems to pass (and one pantomime wild Scottish autumn.) In reality the Munshi was initially the object of much curiosity and of conscious and unconscious racialist behaviour. Once he knew his place was secure in the Queen’s affections he became increasingly arrogant and indolent, piling on weight, being a great acquirer of titles and rewards, becoming grumpy and pushy. Just like all the other courtiers in fact. Bertie allowed him to be the last person to see Victoria on her death bed and then ordered all the papers in Abdul’s possession to be burnt. Both those events are shown in the film; the death-bed moments seeming a strange aberration in the tale woven here, a kindly act toward the Queens’s closest retainer; and the burning of private papers normal on the death of any member of the core royal household to protect reputations.
After all this, it has to be said that this is well made and entertaining film (except for the Izzard hamming) and certainly worth a couple of hours. But a history of Victoria and Abdul Karim it is not; and that is annoying when a more interesting and thoughtful production could have been made from the true story of a complex relationship between two very unlikely people brought close in an age very different to our own. As it is, for that you will need, as so often, a good history book.
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