Eva Husson's Mothering Sunday arrives in American theaters in February. If you are in the UK, you can already stream or rent the movie online. This period drama marks the return of Glenda Jackson to the big-screen after years in Parliament and brief stints on stage. So it seems logical to celebrate this tremendous thespian now, who remains one of the strangest Oscar favorites in Academy history. I've written about her 1970 victory for Women in Love before, but Jackson's career is vaster than the fruitful collaboration with Ken Russell. For instance, on TV, she played the definitive dramatization of Elizabeth I in the BBC's 1971 miniseries Elizabeth R and won two Emmys for her efforts. Concurrently, the actress also played the 16th-century monarch on film.
Charles Jarrott's Mary, Queen of Scots saw her consider the role in a less historical context, performing the Virgin Queen in romanticized opposition to Vanessa Redgrave in the part of her doomed Scottish cousin…
Mary, Queen of Scots is something of an unofficial sequel to Anne of a Thousand Days. After all, the crew is nearly the same, down to screenwriter John Hale whose talents seem to have withered away in the space of two years. You see, unlike that underrated 1969 Best Picture nominee, there's not much to recommend Mary, Queen of Scots. As history, it's codswallop, and it doesn't fare much better as a character study or romantic intrigue. Part of its failure comes from a structure that puts its two leads, Mary Stuart and Elizabeth Tudor, in two virtually irreconcilable films. Vanessa Redgrave inhabits a dramatically anemic version of Mary's story, a soap opera outfitted in goffered frills.
Instead of being presented as a politician and active player in her fate, she is a passive entity to whom the plot happens. Such an approach minimizes one of European History's most complicated women, flattening her until there's not much more than lovesick naivete and endless victimhood. Contrastingly, Glenda Jackson is trapped in a starchy plot that seems interested in a realpolitik purview of Elizabeth's reign. Sadly, the filmmakers get constantly sidetracked by sudsy sensibilities and a whole bunch of sexist revisionism. Like most romanticized accounts of Mary Stuart's life, Elizabeth is painted like a villain, and that villainy is defined by clichéd misogyny.
Political friction is often reduced to a woman's sexual jealousy of her prettier cousin, a childless spinster's hatred of her fecund rival. Regarding this point, it's worth commending how unglamorous Jackson appears, no matter the splendor of Margaret Furse's costumes. She allows herself to look and be ugly compared to Redgrave's saintly Mary. Primarily, this manifests through a matter of facial reactions and line delivery. There's self-satisfaction that's unbecoming and reads as arrogance, a flower of superiority that sours into a pestilent thing as soon as it blossoms. Some contemporaneous critics called her camp. Some, like Pauline Kael, even stated Jackson looked like "a ragpicker hag dressed by Klimt."
Whatever the choice of words, there's an undeniable hideousness to this Virgin Queen that Jackson promotes rather than combats. It's a sound approach that befits the script and underlines the character's power. Her version of the ruler is all about authoritative severity, but it's not monotonous or one-dimensional. She enters the film in a romantic mood, drifting through the Thames on a barge with her lover, Dudley. Jackson suggests carnality with her pose and projects a sharp sense of humor when remembering Anne Boleyn's notorious insolence. Hers is a forceful presence that dominates every space she inhabits and makes vassals out of every man she crosses her path.
Even when delighting herself in private intimacies, her harsh expression emanates strength, smiles always toothy and on the verge of becoming sneers. We see a quick shift in tonality when hearing the news of Lady Dudley's death, foreign gossip, and usurping conspiracies. From domineering adulteress, Elizabeth takes on the role of a calculating politician. While the prickliness Jackson brings to the queen's softer side is beautiful to behold, she's more at ease when presenting the character's cerebral quality unencumbered by pleasantries or a lover's politeness. She's a hurricane of furious expressions, body aching to perform the aggression that storms behind her eyes.
As she gets her hands on a fragile instrument, the object becomes a conduit for relief as she smashes it to pieces. This is no inexperienced monarch or trembling wallflower. On the contrary, Glenda Jackson's Elizabeth is a force of nature. Articulating every vowel with an angry tenor, the actress sculpts her words in the shape of jagged spikes. It sounds like patrician condescension but never feels like a mask or costume. Intimidating majesty comes naturally to Glenda Jackson, both vocally and otherwise, making her the perfect casting choice to play such a larger-than-life queen. Counter-intuitively, part of that comes from the actress's innate modernity.
Speaking the historical-sounding verbiage with confidence, her open obstinance reads 20th century. Her greatness is also found in her talent for exteriorizing wit, a strategist's intelligence, and brutality. To gaze upon her is to admire the machinations going on out of sight. Furthermore, there's athleticism in how she plods and sprints around, even when hefty skirts and farthingales limit her step. Her stature is robust, as is her movement, gesticulating with vigor. When the queen ages, the energy of youth rots into the effortful brittleness of an old body that still thinks itself young. However, in these later passages, Jackson does fight the script's attempts at illuminating the queen's ugly side.
More precisely, she redirects the jabs, calibrates the critique. Playing an infantile tantrum, the actress illustrates the woman's wounded pride and makes it a matter of Machiavellian vanity rather than petty insecurity. When reading a missive that reveals her plans have been spoiled by the birth of Mary's son, Elizabeth crumbles. Jackson speaks lines decrying barrenness while playing the scene with such operatic abandonment that it transcends maternal woes. Again and again, the struggle is noticeable, the textual failures evident. Again and again, Jackson redeems the role and soars above her movie's failures.
No matter how lackluster one finds Redgrave's Mary, the two scenes she shares with Jackson's Elizabeth are the movie's best. On her enemy's arrival to England, the English queen's played as a bottomless pit of insincerity that explodes in fiery revolt as she's faced with insults. Many years later, another fictional meeting of princes takes place, and, this time, Jackson brings new notes to her Elizabethan symphony. Behaving like the executioner holding a blade to Mary's neck, the queen still wants an out. She's begging the other woman for an excuse. She's begging for an opportunity to show mercy. And yet, Jackson acts around the actuality of the character's intentions. Above all, one senses the need to appear strong when falling apart with existential terror, the fear of an anointed queen who sees her equal fall victim to a judicial mandate.
In the aftermath of her Best Actress victory in 1970, Glenda Jackson quickly re-entered the Oscar conversation for this movie and Sunday Bloody Sunday. Nowadays, a smarter campaign might have divided her awards bids between Best Actress and Best Supporting Actress. Unfortunately for her, both performances were considered lead by awards groups, resulting in a conflict of precursor honors. The period drama earned Jackson a Golden Globe nomination and victories from the David di Donatello Awards and the Evening Standard British Film Awards. As for the John Schlesinger flick, it got Jackson a BAFTA win and, eventually, an Academy Award nomination.
AMPAS' chosen five were Julie Christie in McCabe & Mrs. Miller, Jane Fonda in Klute, Glenda Jackson in Sunday Bloody Sunday, Vanessa Redgrave in Mary, Queen of Scots, and Janet Suzman in Nicholas and Alexandra. Fonda won, and Jackson's Queen Elizabeth would have probably been part of the lineup if Sunday Bloody Sunday was out of the picture. Instead, she would win the lead category for a second time shortly after, thanks to 1973's A Touch of Class.
Currently, Mary, Queen of Scots isn't streaming anywhere, but you can get it on DVD.