I mentioned last month that England's national obsession with our kings and queens has given rise to some spectacular theatrical events. Shakespeare knew that he'd never go broke writing about royal families, even if they weren't ours. Sometimes, as in Julius Caesar or Troilus and Cressida, he had to disguise them heavily as Romans or Greeks, but they were still recognizable to contemporary audiences who understood the references as gossip about Elizabeth I and her court.
In 2009 British writer Hilary Mantel wrote a novel called "Wolf Hall." It was long and dense, about a real person, Thomas Cromwell, whom all of us Brits learn about in history lessons at school but tend to ignore because he's so boring. He was just a bureaucrat, we school kids thought, running the dull bits of England for Henry VIII while the real fun, Henry divorcing and beheading wives, was going on elsewhere. The thing about "Wolf Hall," though, was that it was no ordinary historical potboiler. It was brilliant. Mantel somehow got inside the head and guts of one of the wiliest politicians in history and told his story in pellucid prose combined with breakneck plotting and leaps of imagination that left readers breathless. It was, no contest, the novel of the year. Or, when I say 'no contest,' in fact there was a great deal of it, as it won the Man Booker Prize, Britain's top literary award.
In 2012 she published a sequel, "Bring Up the Bodies," which is equally astounding in its combination of literary quality and readability, and she won the Man Booker Prize for that, too — the first woman ever to win it twice. She's now at work on a third part of this cycle about this man of humble origins who rose to become Henry VIII's chief minister and the architect, not only of his divorce from Katherine of Aragon to marry Anne Boleyn, but also of the Reformation and the establishment of the Church of England. For eight years, between 1532 and 1540, during one of England's most turbulent periods, under one of England's most turbulent monarchs, Cromwell was, second only to the King, the most important man in the entire country. Eventually he was also executed by the King for engineering another royal marriage, that to Anne of Cleves, which was a disaster, but the backstage stories are wonderfully theatrical stuff that Mantel makes the most of in her two great books, the first up to the triumph and royal marriage of Anne Boleyn, the second, her downfall to her execution.
One excellent mark of how successfully they have made the adaptations is the fact that you don't need to have read the novels to find the plays completely accessible. Obsessed as I've been since childhood with the Tudors, I had read both novels before I saw the plays, but over tea I compared notes with friends and fellow critics who had read neither and were congratulating themselves on now not having to read them at all. I spent a blissful Saturday seeing them both in one long bask in Tudor love affairs and politics. In the break between the plays — too late for lunch, too early for dinner, but in need of sustenance — I crossed the road from the Aldwych Theatre to the Delaunay for afternoon tea as only the English can do it — warm scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam, tiny sandwiches, sinful cakes — and then, well fortified, back into the Aldwych for another two hours of 16th-century sex and politics. Sheer heaven.
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