ANNE OF THE THOUSAND DAYS: Blu-ray (Universal, 1969) Twilight Time

The Tudor drama, with all its political/palace intrigues, was to experience something of a minor cultural renaissance on film in the 1960’s. It is interesting to note that the decade generally known for big, bloated, all-star screen spectacles, tricked out in the vast expanses of 70mm Super-Panavision, was also brought to heel under the wordy perplexations of literate and highly celebrated stagecraft; 1966’s multi-Oscar-winning, A Man for All Seasons and 1968’s The Lion in Winter among such offerings. Pennsylvanian dramatist, Maxwell Anderson had long been a favorite of Hollywood; renowned for his intricate reconstitution of history and blistering dialogue; also, for calling Ingrid Bergman a ‘big dumb goddamn Swede’ after she and director, Victor Fleming changed much of his carefully written prose for the film version of Joan of Arc (1948 - a colossal failure). Anderson’s authorship was most frequently – and comfortably – situated in England’s past (or rather, the England that never was, though might have been), with Anderson’s particular yen for exposing its sincerely flawed kings and queens. Anderson’s court is a delicious potpourri, populated by the crass and the sycophantic, hiding in plain sight beneath their collars and cuffs. He writes, apart from intelligently, then most assuredly, chomping on the bit of comedy, firmly gritted between the teeth of his contemptuous characters. In hindsight, this was perhaps, homage by way of a subtler art of retribution for his own Scottish/Irish heritage and both nations’ longstanding indifference towards England.

Anderson’s best stagecraft is usually characterized by its willful female protagonists, espousing platitudes and barbs in tandem, laced with the playwright’s highly developed and wickedly keen sense of sexual double entendre. The dialogue in a Maxwell Anderson play goes well beyond mere eloquence; delivered in a faux ole English with subliminally astute observations on the hypocrisies of contemporary social mores. Depending on one’s critical predilections, Anderson’s perceptions of life at court may be construed, either as devilishly handsome odes to a bygone era or transparent bastardizations, owing as much to artistic license as history, and quite often, more heavily slanted towards the former at the expense of the latter.  Director, Charles Jarrott’s Anne of the Thousand Days (1969) is a little of both. There are many discrepancies between the truth and the conspiracies played out for dramatic effect on the stage and later, in this movie. For starters, Anne Boleyn’s actual age was likely closer to thirty than eighteen when she began her affair with Henry VIII. Also, there is virtually no documented evidence to suggest the real Henry VIII deliberately thwarted a love match between Anne and Henry Percy to pursue the girl for his own. Finally, the bittersweet parting between the condemned Anne and Henry likely never happened. The King was many things – but compassion was decidedly not one of his finer-honed attributes! Yet, set aside these and several other minor quibbles about inaccuracy and Anne of the Thousand Days is a richly textured drama, as engrossing in its courtly maneuvers as any slavishly devoted truth about royal succession. Hal Wallis’ unrivaled abilities as producer have assumed a mantle of genuine quality herein.

The world of film has only ever benefited from a score by Georges Delerue and on Anne of the Thousand Days the Roubaix-born Frenchman yields to the muse of harpsicords and balladeers, for lusty galliards, chamber chorales, and, all of the pomp and circumstance of a fancifully recreated Tudor England at its romanticized zenith. Delerue’s music is the perfect complement to Maurice Carter’s production design, Lionel Couch’s art direction and Margaret Furse’s exquisite costuming; all of it, lensed to perfection by cinematographer extraordinaire, Arthur Ibbetson. And then, of course, there is the cast to consider: French-Canadian newcomer, Geneviève Bujold, uncommonly good, even commanding in this, her Golden Globe-winning and Oscar-nominated debut in an English-speaking role. Bujold’s Anne is an enterprising sort, much too smart for her own good. Richard Burton, sufficiently weathered by age and drink, is appropriately sullen, steely-eyed and authoritatively mad, as England’s most notoriously lascivious liege. Burton had inherited the lead from the formidable, Rex Harrison (Burton, then, considered Harrison’s successor). And, he brings an added, almost intangible allure to typify all the perversity of Henry’s self-possessed arrogance. Irene Papas is affectingly subdued as the tragically lovelorn, Queen Katherine, so cruelly referenced by Henry as his ‘Spanish cow’. The cast is rounded out by fine talents: Anthony Quayle, as Cardinal Wolsey, the intriguingly complicit orchestrator of Henry’s mayhem, John Colicos, as Cromwell, the efficient plotter, and, Michael Hordern, a truly cruel and aloof patriarch, Thomas Boleyn.

It is regrettable that Anderson never lived to see Anne of the Thousand Days adapted for the screen (he died 10 years before the movie version); even as a good many of his other masterworks had made this transition, invariably, either to incur his general acceptance or wholehearted contempt. Anne of the Thousand Days had, in fact, been written more than a decade earlier; a Broadway hit in 1948; miraculous, considering the Great White Way’s then affinity for the socially aware musical in lieu of the wordy costume drama. Alas, success went to ‘Anne’s head’ (pun intended) – or rather, to its being perpetually revived on the stage, thus delaying its movie debut, despite several major studios vying for the rights to produce it. Eventually, independent producer, Hal B. Wallis (known for his staggeringly prolific hit-making stature at Warner Bros. and later, Paramount) courted the honor; determined to recreate Anderson’s caustic and confrontational battle royale as a lush and costly costume epic. The strengths of Anderson’s stagecraft were, arguably, also weaknesses, smoothed over in Richard Sokolove’s adaptation, and, Bridget Boland and John Hale’s screenplay. On stage, Maxwell Anderson’s articulate monologues stand on ceremony with Shakespearean soliloquies, infrequently teetering on the brink of long-winded byplay. Mercifully, he never peels over the precipice into stultifying melodrama.

Hence, Anne of the Thousand Days stirs the pot of history with pleasurable jabs of pure affectation. Anderson’s reflections are, of course, grounded in other scholastic analyses on Henry’s reign. Hence, when, at the end of our fateful story, not long before Anne loses her head, she bitterly declares to Henry, “Get yourself a son off of that sweet, pale girl if you can - and hope that he will live. But Elizabeth shall reign after you - child of Anne the Whore and Henry the Blood-Stained Lecher… and remember this, Elizabeth shall be a greater queen than any king of yours. She shall rule a greater England than you could ever have built. Yes – ‘my’ Elizabeth shall be queen and my blood will have been well spent!’ we are privy, not only to all the historical hindsight intervened since 1536, but also the luxury of foresight and projection, the bulk of which our doomed heroine could never have known during the brief golden epoch in which our story is set.  Setting aside Richard Burton’s fiendish blustering, the picture’s greatness rests squarely on the slender, though ever-capable, shoulders of Geneviève Bujold and she proves ever-worthy of the task. Bujold’s is a towering performance as impenitent, as enterprising - the forthright Boleyn sister, neither bought nor had for the price of a crown. Anderson affords Anne great latitude here, and Bujold an unprecedented scale of cheek in her frequent verbal sparring with the King. When Henry asks for her impressions on a ballad, he composed expressly to impress her, she coolly replies, “I would ask him first how his wife liked it, Your Grace”.  Shortly thereafter, Anne further goads Henry by haughtily informing that the lyrics are sour to her ear. She projects that he “makes love” as he eats “…with a great deal of noise and no subtlety!” To a sovereign as self-obsessed, though hardly as self-aware, these are bitter barbs to be sure. But Bujold delivers them with the glacial serenity of a well-orchestrated ice princess. She is already a queen, long before the crown is affixed to her temples.   

Richard Burton’s Henry is a wicked and impenetrable demigod; a stately scuffling between love-struck sovereign, plying Anne with naughty hints of his libidinous intent, and, direct in his authority, infrequently transferred to contempt and/or rage, especially when she denies to acknowledge his most courtly polish and sly innuendo as such. Understated, and underrated honors here must also go to Irene Papas, typecast as the olive-skinned, childless Mediterranean; alas, incapable of satisfying Henry’s obsession for a male heir. Papas is undeniably a very fine actress and usually a domineering presence in the movies. Herein, she subverts our expectations for another strong-willed female to impress with a marvelous subtlety and delusional love. This too is shattered by Burton’s rich villainy; a man who quite obviously does not – and, arguably never has – desired her. “England married Spain,” Henry tells Anne, while wasting no opportunity to remind Katherine of what a colossal disappointment she has been to him these many years. “Our marriage is a curse in heaven and hell, madam!”    

Anne of the Thousand Days begins in the twilight of King Henry VIII’s marriage to Katharine of Aragon. Originally, an affair of state, (the marriage thrust upon an eighteen-year-old Henry by his late father to secure an alliance between England and Spain) the King, now a man in his late thirties (Burton was actually 43 in 1969), is beside himself with sexual frustration. Katharine has been unable to bear him an heir. At court, Henry eyes a young maiden, Anne Boleyn, newly returned from her tutelage in France. However, his dalliances with her older sister, Mary (Valerie Gearon) have toughened this young girl’s resolve. Apart from her obvious disdain for the man who impregnated her sister in trade for her family’s appointments to wealth and property, Anne is much in love with Henry Percy (Terrence Wilton), son of the Earl of Northumberland. The couple has received both sets of parents’ permissions to marry. Alas, Henry will not permit it, sending Cardinal Wolsey as his mouthpiece to intervene on his behalf. Percy is sent away. Anne bitterly resents Henry for this manipulation; in tandem, brashly defying and even challenging him to make good on his threats to reduce her family’s fortunes to bedrock if her behavior so displeases him.  With clever barbs, Anne continues to test the resolve of the King’s lust and patience until Henry can endure no more. Not long thereafter, Anne receives word Percy has married another.

Denied the only man to whom her heart truly belonged, Anne invests all her venom to rebuff the King. At one point, Henry strikes Anne full on the cheek, sending her to the floor. But he is almost immediately remorseful and Anne begins to realize the gravity of importance she truly wields upon Henry’s heart. When Henry professes his genuine affections, Anne seizes the opportunity to make good on her own demands. She will bed Henry for his pleasure, but only when he secures a papal annulment from his first marriage to Katherine. She will bear him a son; one, legitimately entitled to the throne of England. Determined to prove his loyalty to her, Henry attempts to move heaven and earth to receive an annulment. He is repeatedly thwarted; first by Wolsey, then Cromwell. Anne is vengeful – ultimately, to her own detriment. But for a time, her deviousness supersedes even Wolsey’s understanding. When Anne reminds Wolsey of the fact, he holds more titles in England than the King, the embarrassment is enough to force Wolsey to piously recant all rights to his possessions and property. Wolsey, who once regarded Anne as merely another dalliance for the King, now suspects she may contribute to his own undoing if he is not careful.  In the meantime, Henry appeals to Katherine to publicly declare she has been unfaithful, thereby granting the legal grounds for the annulment. Alas, Katherine – knowing Henry has never loved her – is nevertheless compelled to admit she continues to bitterly adore him. As such, Kate refuses to submit to Henry’s lies.

Enraged, Henry plots to force Wolsey’s hand and get the Pope to agree to a divorce.  Again, he is delayed and again, Anne haughtily declares she will not be his mistress by default. To satisfy Anne, Henry petitions a separation of England’s reliance on the Catholic Church. He further dismisses Wolsey from court and makes Anne a present of the Cardinal’s magnificent palace in London. Ensconced within, Anne comes to a genuine affection for Henry of her own accord and, at last, permits him into her bed chamber. The couple consummates their relationship and is secretly married. Discovering she is with child, Anne is given a resplendent coronation to legitimize her presence at court. Alas, the people are not so easily fooled or nearly as accepting, jeering in abject disgust. Anne is “the king’s new whore.” Nevertheless, Henry and Anne await the royal birth with baited anticipation. Tragically, Henry’s joy turns to vinegar when the child is a girl that Anne christens Princess Elizabeth. Although Henry is disillusioned, Anne manages to convince him of Sir Thomas More’s (William Squire) treason against the state, because of his opposition to their marriage. She further demands Henry put More to death. Despite Henry’s initial misgivings, as More has proven ever the devoted friend and statesman, Anne presses the matter. More is wrongfully accused and summarily executed.

Sometime later, Anne and Henry try again for a son. Alas, like all of Henry’s male offspring conceived with Katherine, this new babe – also male – is stillborn. Already begun to believe his second marriage is as cursed as his first, Henry turns his attentions to Anne’s lady in waiting, Jane Seymour (Leslie Paterson). Cromwell, who once conspired to ingratiate himself into Anne’s good graces as a means of manipulating the throne, now turns on her with all his venom, forcing Henry’s hand. Learning of Seymour’s affair with Henry, Anne has her lady in waiting banished from court. Henry appoints Cromwell as his new minister; his first order of business, to discover a way to excommunicate Anne. Cromwell succeeds beyond Henry’s wildest dreams, torturing a loyal servant into a false confession about an adulterous relationship with the Queen. Cromwell has several other courtiers arrested on similar trumped up charges. Finally, he imprisons Anne and her devoted brother, George (Michael Johnson) in the Tower of London; claiming brother and sister have shared an incestuous bed. Disbelieving the severity of these charges at first, Anne now breaks down, declaring Henry mad and herself doomed to suffer a horrible fate. Indeed, pressured by Cromwell’s manufactured evidence, the court finds Anne guilty of incest and treason. However, at trial, Anne manages to cross-examine Mark Smeaton (Harry Fiedler), the servant whom Cromwell tortured into the lie. Unable to remain silent, Smeaton fervently declares his testimony given to be false and all of the allegations against Anne duly unfounded.

Pressed to reassess the case, Henry implores Anne to reconsider annulling their marriage. It would make Elizabeth illegitimate. Still, such a sacrifice would also spare Anne’s life. Anne refuses to trade on her child’s future for her own immediate salvation. Thus, Henry is forced to affix his signature to the court’s legal decision to have her put to death. Awaiting her fate, Anne hypothesizes on the future; an England ruled by Elizabeth as its first Queen. Anne is taken to the gallows and beheaded; Henry riding off to pursue and eventually marry Lady Jane Seymour. In the movie’s penultimate and prophetic final moments, we witness the child, Elizabeth, obtusely at play in the palatial gardens – seemingly unaware her mother has been put to death and most assuredly unprepared for her future destiny as Queen; Anne’s declaration of Elizabeth’s succession, echoing in the breeze as the credits begin to roll.

Anne of the Thousand Days is an intense and fairly captivating costume drama. Producer, Hal B. Wallis delivers a formidable cinematic feast. Along with David O. Selznick, Wallis’ career ought to be textbook for any producer aspiring to guide and influence movie art. The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938), Dark Victory (1939), The Maltese Falcon (1941), Casablanca (1942), Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942), White Christmas (1954); with such credits as these, Wallis could literally do it all. And further to the point, Wallis had already proven his mettle in period costume drama on another movie based on a Maxwell Anderson play, The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex (1939). Interestingly, Richard Burton’s Henry VIII is the most sincerely flawed and human of all Henry’s movie incarnations.  Most portray Henry VIII as a one-dimensional gluttonous demigod. There are elements of this trademarked iconography in Anne of the Thousand Days. But Burton manages to make something more of the part; perhaps, as written by Anderson, he also slowly evolves this Henry into a more complex and tragic figure. Despite the movie’s title, Burton ought to have been its star, if not for the magnetic Geneviève Bujold who, through a miraculous will of defiant grace, manages to refocus the picture back onto the plight of her entitled doomed heroine. Lost in the shuffle is Irene Papas’ empathetic and long-suffering Katharine. Indeed, critics of the day were rather harsh on Papas, made up to embody stereotypical Spanish nobility, complete with cocoa skin and widow’s peak, tightly pulled beneath a restrictive bonnet. In fact, the real Katherine of Aragon was an Auburn-haired beauty of very fair complexion. Anne of the Thousand Days ought never be misconstrued as a literal history lesson. What it remains is a very finely acted, highly literate, and intimately compelling portrait of the human complexities and frailties that may or may not have enveloped these towering figures from history. Anderson’s prose breathes renewable life into this antiquity as few playwrights before or since his time. He may have fudged on the particulars, but he strikes like a firebrand into the overall framework and essence of history itself, anchoring the period in highly relatable human foibles, follies and societal conundrums. As a work, derived further from fiction than fact, personally, this works for me.

Anne of the Thousand Days arrives on Blu-ray from Twilight Time in a stunningly handsome 1080p presentation. This disc appears to have been mastered from elements only slightly improved upon since ‘Anne’ had her Euro ‘region free’ debut on Blu nearly a decade ago. The Euro disc – released via the now defunct distributor, ‘Feel Films’ - was substandard to say the least, with faded colors and intermittent, and rather severe edge effects.  The edge effects still persist and are distracting! But color saturation on the Twilight Time release is superior, with gorgeous flesh tones and exquisite fine detail throughout, but film grain has been accurately resolved. A curiosity noted, occasional establishing shots can look a bit softer than what follows them, and there are minute hints of age-related dirt and speckles scattered throughout as well. None of this will distract from your enjoyment of the movie. We get a superb 2.0 DTS audio, Georges Delerue's Oscar-nominated score isolated on a corresponding track for our listening enjoyment. It would have been welcomed to include an audio commentary on this important movie. Alas, there are no other extras. Bottom line: a magnificent bit of stagecraft, made real to reel for celluloid. Buy with confidence and prepare to savor the flavor of a fantastic night at the movies!

FILM RATING (out of 5 – 5 being the best)

4.5

VIDEO/AUDIO

3.5

EXTRAS

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