Joyce Glasser reviews Firebrand (September 6, 2024) Cert 15, 120 mins.
British and American audiences can’t get enough of the Tudors and actors of the calibre of Charles Laughton, Richard Burton, Robert Shaw and Damian Lewis staked their beards on the plum role of Henry VIII. In Firebrand, it’s the turn of Jude Law who, though unrecognisable in makeup, a convincing fat suit and a nasty gangrened leg, shines as arguably the most psychologically and physically convincing Henry in the canon. But as the West End musical Six, the films about Anne Boleyn and the recent exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery point out, it’s all about the wives.
British and American directors have stayed away from Catherine Parr (Alicia Vikander), the much-married namesake of Henry’s nemesis, Catherine of Aragon, who survived Henry, only to, ironically, die after giving birth to her fourth husband’s child. If any foreign director could embrace the challenge of making an historic biopic about a radical, intellectual queen holding her own in a claustrophobic, conspiratorial world, it’s Brazilian-Algerian filmmaker Karim Aïnouz.
Aïnouz’s period film The Invisible Life of Eurídice Gusmão combined unflinching realism, emotional sincerity and a cinematic, dreamlike atmosphere to tell a powerful story of two resilient sisters locked in a repressive patriarchal community in 1950’s Rio de Janeiro.
Even if the director hadn’t been attracted to Elizabeth Fremantle’s novel The Queen’s Gambit, on which Firebrand’s script is based, the parallels between Parr and Aïnouz’s two sisters are there. What a shame, then, that Parr’s own resilience and intelligence, let alone her subversive obsession with Protestantism are downplayed in the script by Henrietta and Jessica Ashworth.
Henry, facing plague and religious unrest at home goes off to war with France. He appoints Catherine, who signed her name Kateryn or, when writing to the king, ‘KP’ to distinguish herself from two of Henry’s previous wives, as Regent.
Thanks to her sympathetic cabinet of ministers she was productive in Henry’s absence, and some, although not enough, attention is given to how Parr’s political ability and strength in a man’s world influenced young Princess Elizabeth (Junia Rees), relegated to the shadows after her mother’s disgrace and execution.
Parr did much, as the film suggests, to ensure that her stepdaughters, Elizabeth and Mary (Patsy Ferran) are recognised by the king. By supporting the Third Succession Act, 1543, she helped secure their places in the line of succession after Edward.
Just before Henry’s departure for war in the summer of 1544, the queen anonymously published her first book, Psalms or Prayers appreciated by Henry as a clever bit of war propaganda. But it was actually Parr’s translation of a Latin work by Bishop John Fisher – who had been executed for refusing the oath of supremacy.
Parr’s second book, Prayers or Meditations is the first book published under a woman’s name in English. A monologue by a generic Christian, it became a bestseller and was translated into Latin, French and Italian by Princess Elizabeth, encouraged by Parr – as was Princess Mary – to make use of her skills. Parr’s involvement in these seemingly innocent books is glossed over, yet they are fundamental to the film’s main conflict.
Central to this conflict, Parr uses her relative freedom to seek out her old friend Anne Askew (Erin Doherty) an English poet, writer and protestant preacher, when, word gets out, she is preaching to a gathering of men and women. In the film Anne and Catherine are close friends – perhaps former lovers – whose paths have diverged.
Anne is appalled that her friend could have married such a monster, although Anne’s first husband was an abusive Catholic, who threw her out for her adherence to Protestantism. Parr, who explains that she married out of duty, but believes she can do some good, warns Anne that her life is in danger because of her preaching.
It is when Henry returns from France, physically and financially weakened and in agony from his gangrened leg wound, that the conflict peaks. Anne is caught and sentenced to burn at the stake. Parr, who has put up with Henry’s sexual assaults and gluttonous conduct as a devoted wife, cannot contain her composure.
‘Her life is on your soul’ she tells him, possibly thinking of her own, and reminding Henry of the other women he has condemned to death. ‘Don’t question us,’ Henry bellows like a dragon, and again using the Royal We, ‘do not speak of our soul.’
The scheming, malicious Bishop Stephen Gardiner (Simon Russell Beale), wary of Parr’s power, tries to use Henry’s insecurity to his advantage. Gardiner accuses Parr of seeing her true love Thomas Seymour (Tom Riley) – who she will marry after Henry – and of being a heretic like Anne.
The only firebrand in the film is Anne Askew, who deserves her own biopic. It is not so much Vikander’s controlled portrayal of Parr that is the problem but missed opportunities in the script for Parr to show that she, like Anne, is worthy of the term.
It is believed that Parr saw the secret warrant against her in 1446 and made sure she had the possibility of defending herself before the king in person. The film needs this meaty, tense scene between the paranoid king and the desperate queen for a dramatic climax. We should see through their dialogue and body language how Parr transforms suspicion and deception into admiration and something akin to trust.
As for the ending, the problem isn’t so much that it is documented that Parr was not present when Henry died, but that the bloody death scene concocted is as preposterous as is the outcome. As a cathartic enactment of revenge, it’s hard to beat, but in Tudor England wives, especially Henry’s, were deprived of their heads for much less.
