The Lion in Winter

An English professor is stopped by a man begging for spare change. The professor admonishes him, "Neither a borrower nor a lender be. Shakespeare." The beggar replies, "Fuck you! Mamet."

Barry Lyndon was the only English-language costume drama for which I had any special affection, until now. The old joke sprang to mind while watching The Lion in Winter (adapted from the 1966 stage play): As I roared with delight at the verbal bombardment and scribbled down vituperative quote after quote I received the uncanny insight that the professor and the beggar had struck up a friendship and, over a lunch of whiskey and mustard, distilled one of Shakespeare's histories down to high molar acid.

Picture Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? relocated to a cozy Christmas eve in a French castle, shortly before the Third Crusade. Peter O'Toole is the bellowing King Henry II, a knottily virile goat who has called together his vindictive wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine (Katharine Hepburn clenched in rigor mortis), and their three rancorous sons (including Anthony Hopkins' film debut as Richard the Lionheart) from their various seats of imprisonment, exile and asylum for a peaceable yuletide chat about the matter of the inheritance of the Angevin Empire. The youngest, wretched Prince John, squirms and wails over his neglected and unloved lot, "My God, if I went up in flames there's not a living soul who'd pee on me to put the fire out!" Hopkins: "Let's strike a flint and see."

The holiday backdrop is crucial. The Church, centered between these bloodless predators peeled of all gentle sentiment, is mocked and spat upon. Hepburn gets the best lines. Asked whether some agreement is possible at the bargaining table she hisses, "In a world where carpenters get resurrected, anything is possible." The thrust of the screenplay is that we are magnificent savages and the Church but one of our obscenities. Christendom in the Middle Ages was a criminal syndicate brandishing a writ to murder, rape and inflict human misery everywhere the cross could be borne. Those in power were priviledged to take note that piety was immaterial. Hepburn again: "When I was little Christmas was a time of great confusion to me. The Holy Land had two kings — God and Uncle Raymond. I never knew who's birthday we were celebrating."

But whether or not you relish browbeating the clergy this script is a thing to savor. Reminiscing about her first marriage,

I even made poor Louis take me on crusade — how's that for blasphemy? I dressed my maids as Amazons and rode bare breasted halfway to Damascus. Louis had a seizure and I damn near died of windburn...but the troops were dazzled.

The humor, flashing like O'Toole's bits of azure, is frequently knowing and toys with anachronism: A threatened and defenseless Prince John cries out to mother that Richard has a knife. Mother snaps, "Of course he has a knife, he always has a knife, we all have knives! It's 1183 and we're barbarians."

And: Henry's mistress, informed that he is off to Rome to see the pope, gasps with worry, "He's excommunicated you again?"


Barry Lyndon of course is the most beautifully photographed of all color films — notable in a genre that is virtually defined by gaudy, obvious and excessive production design. The Lion in Winter is another exception. Filmed on location in medieval France, the castle and its rudely clothed inhabitants have an understated authenticity; cold, winter-bare and crusty without being overly somber. Pale sunlight above, hungry dark below.