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Wolf Hall, Episode 3: Anna Divisora
Welcome back to our regular erratic examination of 16th century English history via 21st century dramatic television. If you missed the previous installments, these handy hyperlinks will take you to Episode 1 (which you really ought to read first as it lays out my thesis), and Episode 2 (which is skippable if you're pressed for time, as I, apparently, wasn't).
The past two episodes, I've made a point about the title, but "Anna Regina", I think, is fairly straightforward. It's the episode in which Anne becomes Queen, and more importantly Anne is The Boss, well before she is crowned. It may be interesting to note, though, that the title is in Latin, the language of the Catholic Church, while Anne is the motivation for severing England from said institution: one of this episode's leading subplots is the clash between Rome and the Reformation. Notice also that the title – Queen Anne – shares the screen with Katherine of Aragon, who is, at that point in time, still technically the Queen. With this juxtaposition we see the beginning and end of this arc all in one go.
The concrete subplot may be Rome vs the Reformation, but the abstract theme explored in this episode is Pragmatism vs Idealism. Episode 4 will play with it as well, but it is heavily established in, and central to, "Anna Regina." The foils, Cromwell and More, exemplify either side. In their playing off each other and reacting to the events around them, the deeper issues come forth, and the audience is challenged: What would you do in this situation? What do you believe in? To what extent would you stick to your ideals? What would you say to get ahead? Whose side are you on, and whose side would you want to be on?
Much of this conflict is played out in the religious divide, and tensions that arise because of religion, but there is still plenty to chew on if affairs of church and state don't interest you. Democracy is a belief system, not a million miles from a religion, and we see crimes perpetrated against it in this episode. The same goes for the values of romantic love, tolerance, and justice, all of which get skewered by pragmatism. We all have immaterial, non-empirical ideas we hold sacrosanct, so being challenged to examine the power of belief applies to us all.
It's a very relevant episode to our modern world as well, as we struggle with the lack of big ideas in politics, the clash of Islamic fundamentalism and what we consider 'Western values,' and the polarisation and entrenchment of opinion. When is compromise effective and when is it weakness? How much crossover should there be between government and finance? How much influence should moneyed individuals have in the system?
The screenwriting guru who taught at Disney harped on the idea that drama uses history to comment on the present, and that great films hit the rotten nerve of the time in which they are made. This episode is an hour of solid neuralgia, in that respect.
Now that "Entirely Beloved" has secured our affection for Cromwell, we're back to the filmmakers dropping hints about his character, the 'morse blinks' theory I put forth in my writeup of Episode 1. From this point on, we see the shadow side of Cromwell begin to come nearer the surface – as the series progresses it gets more apparent, to the point where the filmmakers don't need to be crafty about hinting at it anymore: it's jagged, exposed, and undeniable, like rocks at low tide.
We have the narrative benefit, now, of Cromwell having been on the scene long enough that the other characters have been able to observe him. If we look, we get glimpses of him through their eyes, which gives us a different angle on his character than what he is presenting to us in the dominant narrative. For instance, the current Archbishop of Canterbury, when buttonholed by a curious Cromwell:
Looks like word has got around that someone likes to catch people out with innocent-sounding questions, always has an ulterior motive, and is not to be trusted. "She can also tell what sins weigh upon a man, as soon as she meets him," Warren retorts, "What would she make of you?"
As well as initiating the reveal of Cromwell's character, this episode also brings Thomas More more to the center, and it's on him that the episode starts. This opening scene is important for a few reasons:
1. It sets up the idea that religious conflict is going to be important in this episode, that the Tudor world is a cruel one, and those who step out of line face real peril. This is a direct premonition of the final scene of the episode.
2. There will be a line of dialogue in Episode 4 which will recall this scene, and invite you to make a connection that may or may not be entirely specious. In the interest of next week, I invite you to observe this setting carefully. It is an anonymous dark stone room with narrow windows. Is there any indication of where it is? Right now, where do you think it is?
3. If my theory is correct, that the scenes in which Cromwell does not appear are being 'told' by him – ostensibly for the sake of continuity but also enabling him to put his spin on the story – then this may or may not have 'actually happened,' or happened this way. All we know is that he wants us to think it did.
3a. If it did 'actually happen' then observe the ambiguity in More's acting. If you've bought into Cromwell:Good, More:Bad, it comes off as sanctimonious, but if you have been able to divorce the More scenes from their manipulative context and spin, and take him at his own value, it could be read as a touch regretful. There are no obvious cinematographic or performance cues to make More's intentions obvious; this equivocation is, I believe, as much a filmmakers' blink as the hints that Cromwell is a rotter.
We cut directly from religious conflict to personal: Cromwell has been sent to Queen Katherine and Princess Many to remove them to a country estate formerly owned by Cardinal Wolsey. He's no longer directly involved in the story, but he can still serve as exemplar of Church corruption: Mary says, disparagingly, their place of exile is “bound to be lavish” if it belonged to him.
Right from the start you have a challenge of sympathy. Cromwell has more compassion for Mary's cramps than her own mother does, which makes him look to us like a sensitive and understanding modern man. But don't let the warm fuzzies distract you: the reason he is there at all is to evict the Queen and Princess from their home at the whim of their husband/father.
Katherine of Aragon is an intelligent hardcore woman who is not afraid of dropping truth bombs, and she makes no bones about what she thinks of Cromwell. First the jarringly modern statement above, then she accuses him of fabricating precedent, and wraps up by turning her disappointment with Henry into a barb at Cromwell: "I didn't expect he would send a man like you to tell me."
The banker/lawyer/politician again goes after our modern pragmatic hearts with his forward-thinking dismissal of superstition, evidenced by the following conversation with his sister-in-law, regarding a 'prophetess' who is making waves:
JOHANE
She's saying Henry won't reign for a year if he marries
Anne. And there's a new star up by the moon, and the last –
CROMWELL
It's no star, it's a comet.
JOHANE
– and the last time it appeared was under King John,
and the cattle stopped breeding and the grass stopped
growing and the birds fell from the sky.
CROMWELL
Well I'm sure, if that happens, we can reverse our policy.
He still hides behind his cynical pragmatism when it comes to the less easily dismissed concern about his association with a proto-Protestant, James Bainham, recently arrested for heresy. "Thomas More already knows my name," he mutters wearily, but this dismissal belies the potential peril of the situation as established in the opening torture scene.
We may stand on side with him when it comes to superstition, and hope his unruffled attitude to More is correct, but Cromwell's personal pragmatism comes into conflict with our cherished ideas in the next scene. Parliament is supposed to vote on whether or not to make Henry head of the Church in England* but the vote, to our modern eyes, is an offence to democracy.
*This is not to adopt full Lutheran-style reforms of the type for which Bainham is in trouble, only to remove the erstwhile Roman Catholic church in England from the authority of the Pope and place it under Henry so he can grant himself an annulment and marry Anne.
Instead of a secret ballot or relatively anonymous vocal vote, representatives in the House of Commons must physically move to one side or the other, in full view of the man they are voting for or against, who by the way also happens to be a short-tempered capricious despot with the power of life and death (or at least significant discomfort) over them. Feel free to vote your conscience!
Maybe, we think, this is just how things were done in less-enlightened Olden Times ... but Gardiner puts paid to that notion by suggesting this innovation was Cromwell's idea. Why yes, it was! And was it because he's a product of his time and just doesn't understand a free and fair election? Nope! "I thought this way His Majesty could see who was with him and who against him, in the Commons at least." Oh, right, then he knows full well it's a sneaky bastard sort of thing to do. Glad we got that straight.
We're back in the perilous world of religious conflict next, as Cromwell's nephew Richard returns from a 'business trip' with secret communication from Tyndale (translator of the Bible into English) who's in hiding. Richard explains the precautions he's taken in case of capture, to which Cromwell replies:
This is wry and amusing, and intrinsically ironic, superficially intended to be a joke. But it feels sincere, and is our first intimation this episode that Cromwell is not afraid to be a violent man. It will not be the last. Then up bubbles the old pragmatism: "You think he'd bend a point of principle to make a friend of the King of England, but nope ... Tyndale and More, they deserve each other, these mules who pose as men."
Pragmatist that he is, Cromwell certainly knows how to play the game. At a court gathering he suggests to Mary Boleyn that he might like to be keeper of the Jewel House. Watch as the right seed planted in the right place will flourish and grow ... why bother with official protocol or asking outright when you can get exactly what you want with a little tickle and some patience?
At this same gathering, Cromwell and Anne have a telling little exchange. She complains of a passive-aggressive sermon delivered against her and Henry, in which the preacher made a point about a famous Old Testament villainess and her cronies.
Incidentally, this is another aspersion that Cromwell doesn't bother to deny. And we learn Anne is a pragmatist after Cromwell's heart: "People should say whatever will keep them alive. You would, wouldn't you?" In this scene she also delivers the salacious story of the Seymours, a scandal that has made their Wiltshire estate infamous. The name of the estate, dropped over her shoulder at the end of the scene like a smoke bomb, is Wolf Hall.
Now, why is a drama about the Tudor court, centred in London, named after the country seat of a tangential family? We're only there for a few scenes in a later episode. There must be a greater reason. Long before we find out it's a real place, the name itself suggests a grand formal residence inhabited by a pack of savage beasts – not a bad metaphor for the royal court. So if the court is, symbolically, Wolf Hall, then when we find out the actual Wolf Hall is riven with sexual indiscretion, how does that refract our perception? If 'Wolf Hall' describes not just a specific building but the world of our story, then when Anne refers to the Seymours as 'those sinners at Wolf Hall' she is really reflecting on our cast. It's a subtly orchestrated layering of meaning and association, but it boy does it do its job!
This scene makes us ponder some important questions about the unfolding story. Are we on the side of good, here? Or are these people 'wicked'? Is the lupine imagery supposed to be positive or negative? Did that priest have a point? Do we accept our protagonists are good – or that we're supposed to believe they're good – simply because the narrative is on their side? Just because the opposing side is opposing, does that mean they are wrong? Who is more in line with our ideals?
By the way, just out of curiosity, whatever happened to Jezebel? (Hint: 2 Kings 9:30-37)
We touch base with the Cromwell/More dynamic when More drops in on Cromwell at home. More knows Cromwell is connected to the heretic Bainham and likely has contacts with Tyndale and Reformation elements on the Continent, and outright threatens him, raising the stakes. Our hero is in peril! It's a dangerous game with serious consequences.
More the Idealist also calls out Cromwell the Pragmatist for his lack of conviction.
He is referring here to an Ottoman conquest which saw the Turks extend their control all the way to Austria. There is a massive amount of handwringing in Europe these days about immigration from the Muslim world, and this scene directly reflects modern concerns. The xenophobes actually calling it an invasion could only dream of the outright military offensive of the 16th century, but it is still regarded as an 'invasion' by some, and More's words touch directly upon those sensitivities.
In being rankled about this issue, the audience may not notice what else is going on, but Cromwell does. More is laying bare his own motivations – he would do unpleasant things for the greater good of saving a soul, and wants to keep Christendom united. In doing so he hands Cromwell the sort of lever he finds most useful in getting what he wants, and we'll see him try to use it later in the episode.
Amidst the threat inherent in his action, we may also miss what More's visit to Austin Friars signifies: In coming to see Cromwell personally, at his home, More is stepping down from his lofty position, and elevating Cromwell to someone important enough for his personal attention. Starting at the dinner in Episode 2, the mirror-image men have been set on mirroring trajectories: as Cromwell rises, More will fall. This is another step down for More and up for Cromwell, narrowing the distance between them, and bringing their trajectories closer to an intersection. Does More know what he is doing? Can he feel his power slipping?
One more small conflict of idealism and pragmatism before moving on to some interesting character development: Cromwell has been having an affair with his late wife's sister Johane, and this has been working well for both of them, but Johane calls it off, in part because it could never legally go anywhere. The idea that having sexual relations with your in-laws constitutes incest is counterintuitive in our post-genetic world, because the parties don't share any DNA, but it comes from the Biblical tradition, starting with Genesis 2:24 – 'Therefore a man leaves his father and his mother and clings to his wife, and they become one flesh.'* This was a central argument in Henry's bid to divorce Katherine of Aragon. She had been 'one flesh' with Henry's brother, and thereby Henry's sister, so the marriage was, he argued, technically illegal. Cromwell and Johane find themselves in a similar situation (Cromwell here in the part of Katherine), but not being monarchs they have no strings to pull to make things work out for them. The ideal is that the power of love should overcome all obstacles, but Austin Friars is Pragmatist House.
*For the idea put to purposes of snark, see Hamlet Act IV sc 3
After the first two episodes' hard work puling out all the stops to make us love Cromwell, in Episode 3 we start to see an unfamiliar, darker edge peep through sometimes. It was hinted earlier in his casual reference to beating God's love into More via some cobbles, but the curtain is drawn back further as he bullies Harry Percy into shutting up about any past 'liberty' with Anne Boleyn. Given his brutal upbringing, mercenary history, and the subtle Godfather imagery employed earlier, it's been intimated he has plenty capacity and ability to inflict harm. This is a strong undercurrent in Rylance's performance here: his voice is controlled and his body language muted, but there is the sense of a coiled spring, of a jaguar on a leash, which rumbles underneath his very matter-of-fact verbal dismantling of his opponent. Systematically, Cromwell:
1. Establishes his own power, explaining that real power is in the world of finance (his remit), not the military or aristocracy (Percy's)
2. Threatens to use this power to gut Percy, in worldly terms (money, manpower, support)
3. Guts the 'happily ever after' romantic fantasy that 'we don't need money if we've got each other'
4. Guts Percy emotionally by telling him how much Anne hates him (possibly overstating the truth, for effect)
5. Threatens to gut Percy literally, or at least castrate him, or at least enable his castration.
Cromwell is beyond doing the dirty work himself; he elevates his own power by hypothetically calling in the services of his banker friends and casting the Duke of Norfolk as his bulldog. Whether or not this would actually come to pass is not the point: Percy believes it completely, so job done. Given what we've seen of the world he moves in, and his very convincing delivery, it's not too hard for the audience to believe it, too.
(Side note: If it is possible to swagger as one stands up from a table, Rylance does it; that clip should be studied by actors and animators everywhere.)
What follows is an absolutely gorgeous scene with Anne and Cromwell watching the resignation of Thomas More from a window.
Something I only noticed when putting this together: How to underline a character's diminished status? How about placing his head graphically under some feet?
The filmmaking itself is masterful: Should anyone ever say 'you can't film brain cells,' show them the perfect illustration of 'the male gaze' as Cromwell studies Anne. More's resignation is an enormous turning point in the arcs both of Cromwell's rise to power and Anne's road to Queenship, but it is filmed entirely in pantomime and from above, rather than playing it out at face value. Nevertheless it is clear what the characters are thinking and feeling, and the overlay of commentary from the window advances our more central characters at the same time.
Anne and Cromwell are both riding the crest of the wave of change – out with the old, in with the new; break the old order and grab the pieces. They watch the resignation of More like vultures, handing out honours and positions to their own. "And for yourself?" says Anne to Cromwell, "I thought perhaps Keeper of the Jewel House." The seed once planted now sprouts and grows ...
Cromwell nominates someone to replace More as chancellor who, he thinks, understands him. "Do you think someone does?" Anne responds. We think we do ... but do we? Perhaps this whole drama is simply Cromwell trying to be understood – in the way he wishes to be understood; his motivations, his side of the story, his answer to the indictments of history. But are we understanding him, or just the picture he makes of himself?
In the writeup for Episode 2, I stated that I could pinpoint the exact moment where Cromwell and More's trajectories cross. Well, here it is:
More has lost his office and Cromwell not yet gained it. More starts with Henry and leaves alone; Cromwell leaves with Henry. A handoff, a square dance. Symmetry with the moment from Episode 2 where their trajectories began. They are facing the same way, in the same pose – the instant More turns and breaks the parallel, he has fallen below Cromwell, and will only continue to fall.
And it happens to be at 31:29, halfway through the episode! I don't know if it was deliberate, but I like that fact too much to let it pass unremarked.
Just as we're seeing a hidden side of Cromwell peep out from his controlled image, More is becoming a more fully rounded character than he was portrayed in earlier episodes. As their power diverges, they become more equal in their human nuance.
CROMWELL: What are you going to do now?
MORE: Write. Pray.
CROMWELL: My recommendation: Write only a little, and pray a lot.
MORE: Now is that a threat?
Oh, in every way, Master Cromwell ...
Something else I only just noticed, thanks to this fantastic post: I'd wondered why More's furs had odd sort of mangy patches where the fur was askew, but now I can see it's where his chain of office used to lie! Did we ever see him with it on? Yet they've thought to give us the artefacts of its passing. Is there nothing these people didn't think of?
The seed planted with Mary Boleyn at the beginning bears fruit at last when Henry – spontaneously, he thinks – offers Cromwell the post of Keeper of the Jewel House. "Why shouldn't I trust the son of an honest blacksmith?" Maybe because he wasn't that honest a blacksmith ... and you haven't noticed it's not your own idea ...
Oh, by the way, just in case you might have forgot that Cromwell is a sneaky bastard, he moves the chess piece when Seymour Jr is distracted. Didn't notice? That's how much of a sneaky bastard he is.
This bit is treated like a sort of cheeky joke with the audience at the expense of Seymour, but what sort of person does that?
The dangerous man who's been hinted at earlier in the episode finally breaks the surface when Cromwell is having a serious nocturnal discussion with Mary Boleyn and is surprised by an unexpected guest. The coiled spring snaps, the jaguar pounces, and any doubts we might have had that our dear kitten-cuddler was capable of the violence he threatens are cast aside.
We are drawn back to the ideological conflict of the episode by a visit to the heretic Bainham in the Tower. He is offered the chance to save his own skin but refuses it, saying he'd only offend again: "I cannot unbelieve what I believe." Here is a strength of conviction missing from those sinners at Wolf Hall: some things are bigger than one man. Is it better to sacrifice your life for a greater ideal, or betray the ideal to save yourself? Even if you know only a little history, you know that at least a few of the members of the Tudor court are imprisoned and executed. When you're coming to the same end anyway, would it be better to do in the pursuit of a great idea or your individual gain?
As the tables turn on the Cromwell/More dynamic, we get a mirror scene to the one earlier, as this time it is Cromwell who drops in on More at home. Just as we've seen a new facet of Cromwell's character when he pulls a knife on Stafford, here we see More the affectionate family man and proto-feminist, apparently finding retirement relaxing; with the surrender of the chain of office, the weight is literally off his shoulders. The jab at Cromwell is ... mostly in jest.
As with More's visit, Cromwell has dropped in to probe More's connections with dangerous elements on the other side of the religious divide. But More shows backbone where Cromwell was silent: More shares religious and political opinions with the Holy Maid and her followers, but scorns allegiance with them.
It is here that Cromwell tries to pull the levers that More handed him earlier, calling upon More's desire to save souls and keep Christianity united under Rome – and playing to his ego enough to grease the wheels. "If his doctrine is false, you can talk him back ... You're the great persuader of our age. If he dies you'll never know, will you, whether you could have saved his soul."
More doesn't give an answer onscreen, but Bainham is sent to the stake regardless. Either we can presume More is onto Cromwell's game and so strong in his conviction that he can't be manipulated even by Cromwell's skills, or he tried his best and Bainham refused to recant. Provided you're at least something of an idealist, More comes out pretty respectable either way.
Before I wrap up, there are two things that are tangential to the central idea of this post, but are important to the impact of the episode, so I think they're worth spending a little time on.
The first is the psychological and emotional aspect of smart filmmaking, specifically in regards to this scene:
Successful film is all about the emotional punch; even documentaries set out to make you feel something. So many filmmakers seem to think that the punch is a response to something happening, so they throw happenings at the audience when they want to elicit a feeling. Sometimes, though, the most powerful scene comes well before anything actually happens, when you can get inside the audience's head by taking them inside a character's head, and forge a sympathetic bond. Master and Commander has plenty of gory battle, but the most excruciating scene for anyone to watch, I think, is the amputation of Blakeney's arm – and you don't see anything. It's all anticipation, human emotion, and sympathetic imagination; the information you receive is emotional, your brain fills in what you aren't seeing, and in putting the two together, puts you in his place.
Burning someone to death is a horrific idea, but on its own is merely a happening. If they showed you the last scene alone, it might elicit a shock, but it would stay fairly shallow. After all, you only see the fire start, you don't see a blistered writhing body – hardly traumatic. It is its setup that makes the drama. They introduce the idea early enough in the episode that it can bed into your mind; the efforts to get him off the hook reinforce how serious the fate is, and his recidivism in the face of that elevates the power of his beliefs. Then we get this scene of sympathetic imagination. Locked in the Tower a second time, Bainham knows what awaits him, has said his faith is more important than his death, and has acted as though prepared to face it, but of course there are always doubts, and curiosity can be as powerful as conviction. The candle offers a chance to experiment – what does it feel like to be burned? How much can he take? Putting it to the test takes the horror of his fate from the abstract to the literal and personal; seeing his experience of the flame, and the fear with which he extrapolates that into a burning pyre, makes it real to us in a way that merely seeing it wouldn't.
Some people bemoan the rampant violence and gore in films and TV these says, and some revel in it, but without grooming the audience psychologically, it is nothing more than sensationalism, prodding the audience for a throwaway thrill. If you can handle the psychological groundwork well enough, often you don't even need the 'happening' itself. We never see Bainham's burning corpse; his distress as the fire is lit, with the psychological seeding of the candle scene, is enough. Had they gone so far with the literal imagery, the emotional impact of pity and horror would have given way to cerebral disgust or shock, but it's the emotional information that ought to stick.
I'm sure there's a parallel to be made here with pornography vs romance, but I don't think I have enough experience with either to be the one to draw it ...
The emotional and intellectual impact of "Anna Regina" also benefited from a rather spectacular coincidence, the sort of groundwork the makers could not have imagined while filming the episode. It aired in the UK on the evening of 4 February 2015, the day after news broke of ISIS' burning alive of the captured Jordanian pilot. As if the thematic elements of the episode weren't relevant enough as they were, that last scene was like a hammer blow on the 'rotten nerve' freshly exposed. In an interview*, the director Kosminsky had this to say about the obvious parallels between the religious conflict in the show and how the same sort of thing is going on today:
*It is a pity the 30-minute BBC Four edit of the interview isn't available online anywhere, as there was an excellent discussion of the Idealism vs Pragmatism thread in the series. It aired after Episode 6, so there are spoilers of which you should be aware, if you choose to watch it before finishing the show.
From here on to the end of the series, Cromwell's shadow side will come ever more to the fore, and the façade of unimpeachable goodness fall away. At what point will you realise it's an illusion?
The past two episodes, I've made a point about the title, but "Anna Regina", I think, is fairly straightforward. It's the episode in which Anne becomes Queen, and more importantly Anne is The Boss, well before she is crowned. It may be interesting to note, though, that the title is in Latin, the language of the Catholic Church, while Anne is the motivation for severing England from said institution: one of this episode's leading subplots is the clash between Rome and the Reformation. Notice also that the title – Queen Anne – shares the screen with Katherine of Aragon, who is, at that point in time, still technically the Queen. With this juxtaposition we see the beginning and end of this arc all in one go.
The concrete subplot may be Rome vs the Reformation, but the abstract theme explored in this episode is Pragmatism vs Idealism. Episode 4 will play with it as well, but it is heavily established in, and central to, "Anna Regina." The foils, Cromwell and More, exemplify either side. In their playing off each other and reacting to the events around them, the deeper issues come forth, and the audience is challenged: What would you do in this situation? What do you believe in? To what extent would you stick to your ideals? What would you say to get ahead? Whose side are you on, and whose side would you want to be on?
Much of this conflict is played out in the religious divide, and tensions that arise because of religion, but there is still plenty to chew on if affairs of church and state don't interest you. Democracy is a belief system, not a million miles from a religion, and we see crimes perpetrated against it in this episode. The same goes for the values of romantic love, tolerance, and justice, all of which get skewered by pragmatism. We all have immaterial, non-empirical ideas we hold sacrosanct, so being challenged to examine the power of belief applies to us all.
It's a very relevant episode to our modern world as well, as we struggle with the lack of big ideas in politics, the clash of Islamic fundamentalism and what we consider 'Western values,' and the polarisation and entrenchment of opinion. When is compromise effective and when is it weakness? How much crossover should there be between government and finance? How much influence should moneyed individuals have in the system?
The screenwriting guru who taught at Disney harped on the idea that drama uses history to comment on the present, and that great films hit the rotten nerve of the time in which they are made. This episode is an hour of solid neuralgia, in that respect.
Now that "Entirely Beloved" has secured our affection for Cromwell, we're back to the filmmakers dropping hints about his character, the 'morse blinks' theory I put forth in my writeup of Episode 1. From this point on, we see the shadow side of Cromwell begin to come nearer the surface – as the series progresses it gets more apparent, to the point where the filmmakers don't need to be crafty about hinting at it anymore: it's jagged, exposed, and undeniable, like rocks at low tide.
We have the narrative benefit, now, of Cromwell having been on the scene long enough that the other characters have been able to observe him. If we look, we get glimpses of him through their eyes, which gives us a different angle on his character than what he is presenting to us in the dominant narrative. For instance, the current Archbishop of Canterbury, when buttonholed by a curious Cromwell:
Looks like word has got around that someone likes to catch people out with innocent-sounding questions, always has an ulterior motive, and is not to be trusted. "She can also tell what sins weigh upon a man, as soon as she meets him," Warren retorts, "What would she make of you?"
As well as initiating the reveal of Cromwell's character, this episode also brings Thomas More more to the center, and it's on him that the episode starts. This opening scene is important for a few reasons:
1. It sets up the idea that religious conflict is going to be important in this episode, that the Tudor world is a cruel one, and those who step out of line face real peril. This is a direct premonition of the final scene of the episode.
2. There will be a line of dialogue in Episode 4 which will recall this scene, and invite you to make a connection that may or may not be entirely specious. In the interest of next week, I invite you to observe this setting carefully. It is an anonymous dark stone room with narrow windows. Is there any indication of where it is? Right now, where do you think it is?
3. If my theory is correct, that the scenes in which Cromwell does not appear are being 'told' by him – ostensibly for the sake of continuity but also enabling him to put his spin on the story – then this may or may not have 'actually happened,' or happened this way. All we know is that he wants us to think it did.
3a. If it did 'actually happen' then observe the ambiguity in More's acting. If you've bought into Cromwell:Good, More:Bad, it comes off as sanctimonious, but if you have been able to divorce the More scenes from their manipulative context and spin, and take him at his own value, it could be read as a touch regretful. There are no obvious cinematographic or performance cues to make More's intentions obvious; this equivocation is, I believe, as much a filmmakers' blink as the hints that Cromwell is a rotter.
We cut directly from religious conflict to personal: Cromwell has been sent to Queen Katherine and Princess Many to remove them to a country estate formerly owned by Cardinal Wolsey. He's no longer directly involved in the story, but he can still serve as exemplar of Church corruption: Mary says, disparagingly, their place of exile is “bound to be lavish” if it belonged to him.
Right from the start you have a challenge of sympathy. Cromwell has more compassion for Mary's cramps than her own mother does, which makes him look to us like a sensitive and understanding modern man. But don't let the warm fuzzies distract you: the reason he is there at all is to evict the Queen and Princess from their home at the whim of their husband/father.
Katherine of Aragon is an intelligent hardcore woman who is not afraid of dropping truth bombs, and she makes no bones about what she thinks of Cromwell. First the jarringly modern statement above, then she accuses him of fabricating precedent, and wraps up by turning her disappointment with Henry into a barb at Cromwell: "I didn't expect he would send a man like you to tell me."
The banker/lawyer/politician again goes after our modern pragmatic hearts with his forward-thinking dismissal of superstition, evidenced by the following conversation with his sister-in-law, regarding a 'prophetess' who is making waves:
She's saying Henry won't reign for a year if he marries
Anne. And there's a new star up by the moon, and the last –
CROMWELL
It's no star, it's a comet.
JOHANE
– and the last time it appeared was under King John,
and the cattle stopped breeding and the grass stopped
growing and the birds fell from the sky.
CROMWELL
Well I'm sure, if that happens, we can reverse our policy.
He still hides behind his cynical pragmatism when it comes to the less easily dismissed concern about his association with a proto-Protestant, James Bainham, recently arrested for heresy. "Thomas More already knows my name," he mutters wearily, but this dismissal belies the potential peril of the situation as established in the opening torture scene.
We may stand on side with him when it comes to superstition, and hope his unruffled attitude to More is correct, but Cromwell's personal pragmatism comes into conflict with our cherished ideas in the next scene. Parliament is supposed to vote on whether or not to make Henry head of the Church in England* but the vote, to our modern eyes, is an offence to democracy.
*This is not to adopt full Lutheran-style reforms of the type for which Bainham is in trouble, only to remove the erstwhile Roman Catholic church in England from the authority of the Pope and place it under Henry so he can grant himself an annulment and marry Anne.
Instead of a secret ballot or relatively anonymous vocal vote, representatives in the House of Commons must physically move to one side or the other, in full view of the man they are voting for or against, who by the way also happens to be a short-tempered capricious despot with the power of life and death (or at least significant discomfort) over them. Feel free to vote your conscience!
Maybe, we think, this is just how things were done in less-enlightened Olden Times ... but Gardiner puts paid to that notion by suggesting this innovation was Cromwell's idea. Why yes, it was! And was it because he's a product of his time and just doesn't understand a free and fair election? Nope! "I thought this way His Majesty could see who was with him and who against him, in the Commons at least." Oh, right, then he knows full well it's a sneaky bastard sort of thing to do. Glad we got that straight.
We're back in the perilous world of religious conflict next, as Cromwell's nephew Richard returns from a 'business trip' with secret communication from Tyndale (translator of the Bible into English) who's in hiding. Richard explains the precautions he's taken in case of capture, to which Cromwell replies:
This is wry and amusing, and intrinsically ironic, superficially intended to be a joke. But it feels sincere, and is our first intimation this episode that Cromwell is not afraid to be a violent man. It will not be the last. Then up bubbles the old pragmatism: "You think he'd bend a point of principle to make a friend of the King of England, but nope ... Tyndale and More, they deserve each other, these mules who pose as men."
Pragmatist that he is, Cromwell certainly knows how to play the game. At a court gathering he suggests to Mary Boleyn that he might like to be keeper of the Jewel House. Watch as the right seed planted in the right place will flourish and grow ... why bother with official protocol or asking outright when you can get exactly what you want with a little tickle and some patience?
At this same gathering, Cromwell and Anne have a telling little exchange. She complains of a passive-aggressive sermon delivered against her and Henry, in which the preacher made a point about a famous Old Testament villainess and her cronies.
Incidentally, this is another aspersion that Cromwell doesn't bother to deny. And we learn Anne is a pragmatist after Cromwell's heart: "People should say whatever will keep them alive. You would, wouldn't you?" In this scene she also delivers the salacious story of the Seymours, a scandal that has made their Wiltshire estate infamous. The name of the estate, dropped over her shoulder at the end of the scene like a smoke bomb, is Wolf Hall.
Now, why is a drama about the Tudor court, centred in London, named after the country seat of a tangential family? We're only there for a few scenes in a later episode. There must be a greater reason. Long before we find out it's a real place, the name itself suggests a grand formal residence inhabited by a pack of savage beasts – not a bad metaphor for the royal court. So if the court is, symbolically, Wolf Hall, then when we find out the actual Wolf Hall is riven with sexual indiscretion, how does that refract our perception? If 'Wolf Hall' describes not just a specific building but the world of our story, then when Anne refers to the Seymours as 'those sinners at Wolf Hall' she is really reflecting on our cast. It's a subtly orchestrated layering of meaning and association, but it boy does it do its job!
This scene makes us ponder some important questions about the unfolding story. Are we on the side of good, here? Or are these people 'wicked'? Is the lupine imagery supposed to be positive or negative? Did that priest have a point? Do we accept our protagonists are good – or that we're supposed to believe they're good – simply because the narrative is on their side? Just because the opposing side is opposing, does that mean they are wrong? Who is more in line with our ideals?
By the way, just out of curiosity, whatever happened to Jezebel? (Hint: 2 Kings 9:30-37)
We touch base with the Cromwell/More dynamic when More drops in on Cromwell at home. More knows Cromwell is connected to the heretic Bainham and likely has contacts with Tyndale and Reformation elements on the Continent, and outright threatens him, raising the stakes. Our hero is in peril! It's a dangerous game with serious consequences.
More the Idealist also calls out Cromwell the Pragmatist for his lack of conviction.
He is referring here to an Ottoman conquest which saw the Turks extend their control all the way to Austria. There is a massive amount of handwringing in Europe these days about immigration from the Muslim world, and this scene directly reflects modern concerns. The xenophobes actually calling it an invasion could only dream of the outright military offensive of the 16th century, but it is still regarded as an 'invasion' by some, and More's words touch directly upon those sensitivities.
In being rankled about this issue, the audience may not notice what else is going on, but Cromwell does. More is laying bare his own motivations – he would do unpleasant things for the greater good of saving a soul, and wants to keep Christendom united. In doing so he hands Cromwell the sort of lever he finds most useful in getting what he wants, and we'll see him try to use it later in the episode.
Amidst the threat inherent in his action, we may also miss what More's visit to Austin Friars signifies: In coming to see Cromwell personally, at his home, More is stepping down from his lofty position, and elevating Cromwell to someone important enough for his personal attention. Starting at the dinner in Episode 2, the mirror-image men have been set on mirroring trajectories: as Cromwell rises, More will fall. This is another step down for More and up for Cromwell, narrowing the distance between them, and bringing their trajectories closer to an intersection. Does More know what he is doing? Can he feel his power slipping?One more small conflict of idealism and pragmatism before moving on to some interesting character development: Cromwell has been having an affair with his late wife's sister Johane, and this has been working well for both of them, but Johane calls it off, in part because it could never legally go anywhere. The idea that having sexual relations with your in-laws constitutes incest is counterintuitive in our post-genetic world, because the parties don't share any DNA, but it comes from the Biblical tradition, starting with Genesis 2:24 – 'Therefore a man leaves his father and his mother and clings to his wife, and they become one flesh.'* This was a central argument in Henry's bid to divorce Katherine of Aragon. She had been 'one flesh' with Henry's brother, and thereby Henry's sister, so the marriage was, he argued, technically illegal. Cromwell and Johane find themselves in a similar situation (Cromwell here in the part of Katherine), but not being monarchs they have no strings to pull to make things work out for them. The ideal is that the power of love should overcome all obstacles, but Austin Friars is Pragmatist House.
*For the idea put to purposes of snark, see Hamlet Act IV sc 3
After the first two episodes' hard work puling out all the stops to make us love Cromwell, in Episode 3 we start to see an unfamiliar, darker edge peep through sometimes. It was hinted earlier in his casual reference to beating God's love into More via some cobbles, but the curtain is drawn back further as he bullies Harry Percy into shutting up about any past 'liberty' with Anne Boleyn. Given his brutal upbringing, mercenary history, and the subtle Godfather imagery employed earlier, it's been intimated he has plenty capacity and ability to inflict harm. This is a strong undercurrent in Rylance's performance here: his voice is controlled and his body language muted, but there is the sense of a coiled spring, of a jaguar on a leash, which rumbles underneath his very matter-of-fact verbal dismantling of his opponent. Systematically, Cromwell:
1. Establishes his own power, explaining that real power is in the world of finance (his remit), not the military or aristocracy (Percy's)
2. Threatens to use this power to gut Percy, in worldly terms (money, manpower, support)
3. Guts the 'happily ever after' romantic fantasy that 'we don't need money if we've got each other'
4. Guts Percy emotionally by telling him how much Anne hates him (possibly overstating the truth, for effect)
5. Threatens to gut Percy literally, or at least castrate him, or at least enable his castration.
Cromwell is beyond doing the dirty work himself; he elevates his own power by hypothetically calling in the services of his banker friends and casting the Duke of Norfolk as his bulldog. Whether or not this would actually come to pass is not the point: Percy believes it completely, so job done. Given what we've seen of the world he moves in, and his very convincing delivery, it's not too hard for the audience to believe it, too.
(Side note: If it is possible to swagger as one stands up from a table, Rylance does it; that clip should be studied by actors and animators everywhere.)
What follows is an absolutely gorgeous scene with Anne and Cromwell watching the resignation of Thomas More from a window.
Something I only noticed when putting this together: How to underline a character's diminished status? How about placing his head graphically under some feet?
The filmmaking itself is masterful: Should anyone ever say 'you can't film brain cells,' show them the perfect illustration of 'the male gaze' as Cromwell studies Anne. More's resignation is an enormous turning point in the arcs both of Cromwell's rise to power and Anne's road to Queenship, but it is filmed entirely in pantomime and from above, rather than playing it out at face value. Nevertheless it is clear what the characters are thinking and feeling, and the overlay of commentary from the window advances our more central characters at the same time.
Anne and Cromwell are both riding the crest of the wave of change – out with the old, in with the new; break the old order and grab the pieces. They watch the resignation of More like vultures, handing out honours and positions to their own. "And for yourself?" says Anne to Cromwell, "I thought perhaps Keeper of the Jewel House." The seed once planted now sprouts and grows ...
Cromwell nominates someone to replace More as chancellor who, he thinks, understands him. "Do you think someone does?" Anne responds. We think we do ... but do we? Perhaps this whole drama is simply Cromwell trying to be understood – in the way he wishes to be understood; his motivations, his side of the story, his answer to the indictments of history. But are we understanding him, or just the picture he makes of himself?
In the writeup for Episode 2, I stated that I could pinpoint the exact moment where Cromwell and More's trajectories cross. Well, here it is:
More has lost his office and Cromwell not yet gained it. More starts with Henry and leaves alone; Cromwell leaves with Henry. A handoff, a square dance. Symmetry with the moment from Episode 2 where their trajectories began. They are facing the same way, in the same pose – the instant More turns and breaks the parallel, he has fallen below Cromwell, and will only continue to fall.
And it happens to be at 31:29, halfway through the episode! I don't know if it was deliberate, but I like that fact too much to let it pass unremarked.
Just as we're seeing a hidden side of Cromwell peep out from his controlled image, More is becoming a more fully rounded character than he was portrayed in earlier episodes. As their power diverges, they become more equal in their human nuance.
CROMWELL: What are you going to do now?
MORE: Write. Pray.
CROMWELL: My recommendation: Write only a little, and pray a lot.
MORE: Now is that a threat?
Oh, in every way, Master Cromwell ...
Something else I only just noticed, thanks to this fantastic post: I'd wondered why More's furs had odd sort of mangy patches where the fur was askew, but now I can see it's where his chain of office used to lie! Did we ever see him with it on? Yet they've thought to give us the artefacts of its passing. Is there nothing these people didn't think of?
The seed planted with Mary Boleyn at the beginning bears fruit at last when Henry – spontaneously, he thinks – offers Cromwell the post of Keeper of the Jewel House. "Why shouldn't I trust the son of an honest blacksmith?" Maybe because he wasn't that honest a blacksmith ... and you haven't noticed it's not your own idea ...
Oh, by the way, just in case you might have forgot that Cromwell is a sneaky bastard, he moves the chess piece when Seymour Jr is distracted. Didn't notice? That's how much of a sneaky bastard he is.
This bit is treated like a sort of cheeky joke with the audience at the expense of Seymour, but what sort of person does that?
The dangerous man who's been hinted at earlier in the episode finally breaks the surface when Cromwell is having a serious nocturnal discussion with Mary Boleyn and is surprised by an unexpected guest. The coiled spring snaps, the jaguar pounces, and any doubts we might have had that our dear kitten-cuddler was capable of the violence he threatens are cast aside.We are drawn back to the ideological conflict of the episode by a visit to the heretic Bainham in the Tower. He is offered the chance to save his own skin but refuses it, saying he'd only offend again: "I cannot unbelieve what I believe." Here is a strength of conviction missing from those sinners at Wolf Hall: some things are bigger than one man. Is it better to sacrifice your life for a greater ideal, or betray the ideal to save yourself? Even if you know only a little history, you know that at least a few of the members of the Tudor court are imprisoned and executed. When you're coming to the same end anyway, would it be better to do in the pursuit of a great idea or your individual gain?
As the tables turn on the Cromwell/More dynamic, we get a mirror scene to the one earlier, as this time it is Cromwell who drops in on More at home. Just as we've seen a new facet of Cromwell's character when he pulls a knife on Stafford, here we see More the affectionate family man and proto-feminist, apparently finding retirement relaxing; with the surrender of the chain of office, the weight is literally off his shoulders. The jab at Cromwell is ... mostly in jest.
As with More's visit, Cromwell has dropped in to probe More's connections with dangerous elements on the other side of the religious divide. But More shows backbone where Cromwell was silent: More shares religious and political opinions with the Holy Maid and her followers, but scorns allegiance with them.
It is here that Cromwell tries to pull the levers that More handed him earlier, calling upon More's desire to save souls and keep Christianity united under Rome – and playing to his ego enough to grease the wheels. "If his doctrine is false, you can talk him back ... You're the great persuader of our age. If he dies you'll never know, will you, whether you could have saved his soul."More doesn't give an answer onscreen, but Bainham is sent to the stake regardless. Either we can presume More is onto Cromwell's game and so strong in his conviction that he can't be manipulated even by Cromwell's skills, or he tried his best and Bainham refused to recant. Provided you're at least something of an idealist, More comes out pretty respectable either way.
Before I wrap up, there are two things that are tangential to the central idea of this post, but are important to the impact of the episode, so I think they're worth spending a little time on.
The first is the psychological and emotional aspect of smart filmmaking, specifically in regards to this scene:
Successful film is all about the emotional punch; even documentaries set out to make you feel something. So many filmmakers seem to think that the punch is a response to something happening, so they throw happenings at the audience when they want to elicit a feeling. Sometimes, though, the most powerful scene comes well before anything actually happens, when you can get inside the audience's head by taking them inside a character's head, and forge a sympathetic bond. Master and Commander has plenty of gory battle, but the most excruciating scene for anyone to watch, I think, is the amputation of Blakeney's arm – and you don't see anything. It's all anticipation, human emotion, and sympathetic imagination; the information you receive is emotional, your brain fills in what you aren't seeing, and in putting the two together, puts you in his place.
Burning someone to death is a horrific idea, but on its own is merely a happening. If they showed you the last scene alone, it might elicit a shock, but it would stay fairly shallow. After all, you only see the fire start, you don't see a blistered writhing body – hardly traumatic. It is its setup that makes the drama. They introduce the idea early enough in the episode that it can bed into your mind; the efforts to get him off the hook reinforce how serious the fate is, and his recidivism in the face of that elevates the power of his beliefs. Then we get this scene of sympathetic imagination. Locked in the Tower a second time, Bainham knows what awaits him, has said his faith is more important than his death, and has acted as though prepared to face it, but of course there are always doubts, and curiosity can be as powerful as conviction. The candle offers a chance to experiment – what does it feel like to be burned? How much can he take? Putting it to the test takes the horror of his fate from the abstract to the literal and personal; seeing his experience of the flame, and the fear with which he extrapolates that into a burning pyre, makes it real to us in a way that merely seeing it wouldn't.
Some people bemoan the rampant violence and gore in films and TV these says, and some revel in it, but without grooming the audience psychologically, it is nothing more than sensationalism, prodding the audience for a throwaway thrill. If you can handle the psychological groundwork well enough, often you don't even need the 'happening' itself. We never see Bainham's burning corpse; his distress as the fire is lit, with the psychological seeding of the candle scene, is enough. Had they gone so far with the literal imagery, the emotional impact of pity and horror would have given way to cerebral disgust or shock, but it's the emotional information that ought to stick.
I'm sure there's a parallel to be made here with pornography vs romance, but I don't think I have enough experience with either to be the one to draw it ...
The emotional and intellectual impact of "Anna Regina" also benefited from a rather spectacular coincidence, the sort of groundwork the makers could not have imagined while filming the episode. It aired in the UK on the evening of 4 February 2015, the day after news broke of ISIS' burning alive of the captured Jordanian pilot. As if the thematic elements of the episode weren't relevant enough as they were, that last scene was like a hammer blow on the 'rotten nerve' freshly exposed. In an interview*, the director Kosminsky had this to say about the obvious parallels between the religious conflict in the show and how the same sort of thing is going on today:
Islam is about 500 years younger than Christianity, and the period we are looking at here is about 500 years ago. So we're looking at a time when Christianity was about the same age, as a religion, as Islam is today. And what were we doing back then? Well, we were chopping people's heads off, we were burning people alive at the stake, we were disemboweling people alive and then drawing and quartering them. And why? Why were we doing that? We were doing it primarily over quite subtle differences of interpretation of religious doctrine. Does that sound familiar?
*It is a pity the 30-minute BBC Four edit of the interview isn't available online anywhere, as there was an excellent discussion of the Idealism vs Pragmatism thread in the series. It aired after Episode 6, so there are spoilers of which you should be aware, if you choose to watch it before finishing the show.
From here on to the end of the series, Cromwell's shadow side will come ever more to the fore, and the façade of unimpeachable goodness fall away. At what point will you realise it's an illusion?
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