When it comes to Peter Morgan’s long-running series The Crown, I feel a bit like the BBC reporter Brian Hanrahan: “I counted them all out, and I counted them all back,” as he famously said during the Falklands War. Each time, of course, the various personnel are a bit older on return (er, are played by a completely different actor). But at the moment, they remain present and correct: the Queen, her mother and her sister; her husband; her wretched children and their wretched spouses. Only when series six – the last – arrives next year will the funerals begin. Will anyone still be watching then? Or will it just be me in my lace mourning veil?
Loyal readers will know that I adored The Crown when it began. No longer. The closer the action is to our own times, the more it’s just Hello! magazine with pretensions. And it’s so boring! The Daily Mail, frothing at the mouth dementedly, is convinced it’s cruel to our new king, but in truth, Charles hardly appears. Morgan’s attention is focused on far more exciting matters: the decommissioning of the Royal Yacht Britannia, Prince Philip’s obsession with carriage driving, and Mohamed al-Fayed’s attempts to buy Harrods.
Content from our partners
