The annals of theatrical history record that English actress Glenda Jackson is the last individual to have secured the elusive Triple Crown of Acting, having won a Tony, an Oscar, and an Emmy. Notably, she clinched Emmy in 1971 for her commanding portrayal of Queen Elizabeth I in the BBC’s landmark miniseries Elizabeth R, a production often held as the apotheosis of the prestigious historical drama. By a curious twist of fate, during that very same year, Jackson was concurrently depicting the same monarch on the big screen in the feature film Mary, Queen of Scots. Here, she faced off against another Triple Crown laureate, Vanessa Redgrave, who took the title role. This fortuitous clash of titans should have yielded a cinematic landmark. Instead, the resulting film is a curiously stiff and dated pageant, a lavish misfire that fails to harness the formidable talents at its disposal, ultimately serving as a prime example of a fading Hollywood tradition awkwardly colliding with a new era of filmmaking.
The film’s narrative, written by John Hale, follows the turbulent life of Mary Stuart (Redgrave). We first encounter her in France as the young wife of King Francis II (Richard Denning). Upon his death, she returns to her native Scotland to claim a throne rendered precarious by the Protestant Reformation, zealously propagated by firebrand preacher John Knox (Robert James). Her arrival triggers profound anxiety in her cousin, Queen Elizabeth I of England (Jackson), who views Mary’s superior claim to the English succession as an existential threat. Elizabeth’s political machinations form the spine of the plot: first, a failed offer of her own favourite, Robert Dudley (Daniel Massey), as a husband for Mary; then, the successful promotion of Lord Darnley (Timothy Dalton). Darnley, a dashing Catholic scion, wins Mary’s heart but swiftly reveals himself to be a weak, debauched, and syphilitic liability, manipulated by Scottish nobles led by Mary’s illegitimate brother, the Earl of Moray (Patrick McGoohan). The tragic arc descends into betrayal, murder—of Mary’s secretary David Riccio (Ian Holm)—and eventually Darnley’s own assassination, for which Mary is widely believed responsible. A brief, desperate marriage to the powerful Lord Bothwell (Nigel Davenport) leads only to further rebellion, the loss of her infant son James, and her final flight to England and a decades-long captivity that ends on the block.
Mary, Queen of Scots appears profoundly dated to a modern viewer, but tellingly, it also seemed somewhat antiquated upon its 1971 release, despite garnering several Oscar nominations (including a Best Actress nod for Redgrave). This anachronistic quality can be traced directly to its producer, Hal B. Wallis. A legend of Classic Hollywood responsible for timeless hits like Casablanca, Wallis’s methodology by the early 1970s had fossilised. His brand of studio-era craftsmanship—prioritising opulent costumes, grand sets, and star-driven melodrama over psychological depth or narrative innovation—was becoming obsolete amidst the seismic shifts of New Hollywood. The film feels like a product from a previous decade, a lush, static tableau more concerned with pageantry than passion or political nuance. It is a film out of time, both in its setting and its sensibility.
This staid atmosphere is exacerbated by the work of director Charles Jarrott. A veteran of television, Jarrott had previously collaborated with Wallis on the similarly themed Anne of the Thousand Days (1969). His direction here is competent but utterly devoid of inspiration. He approaches the complex, bloody saga of Reformation politics and personal betrayal with a televisual flatness, content to let his actors declaim against sumptuous backdrops. The camera rarely moves with purpose, and the editing lacks dynamism. Consequently, the film plods where it should thrill, becoming a visual and narrative bore despite the inherent drama of the story, John Barry’s effectively mournful score (which includes a sonnet sung by Redgrave herself), and no shortage of period detail. Jarrott fails to inject any contemporary relevance or visceral energy into the proceedings, leaving the film feeling like a beautifully mounted but emotionally inert museum piece.
The central performances, meanwhile, are a study in contrast. Vanessa Redgrave endeavours to breathe life into Mary, but the script fatally undermines her efforts. Hale’s writing is schizophrenic, torn between a desire to sanctify Mary as a tragic Catholic martyr and a prurient urge to wallow in the soap-opera elements of her private life. Redgrave walks through this inconsistency with grace and palpable intelligence, but she is often left stranded, her character’s motivations blurred. Glenda Jackson, conversely, is electrifying. Her Elizabeth is a masterpiece of steery intelligence and brittle vulnerability. Less conventionally glamorous than Redgrave’s Mary, Jackson portrays a monarch whose every gesture is calculated, whose sharp eyes miss nothing. The film crackles into life only during her scenes, particularly the several entirely ahistorical face-to-face meetings between the two queens—a dramatic liberty also taken in John Ford’s 1936 film and Josie Rourke’s 2018 version. In these encounters, Jackson’s wary, formidable Elizabeth effortlessly dominates, highlighting the script’s fundamental inability to grant Mary equivalent dramatic weight.
Further problems arise from jarring miscasting. The most egregious example is Nigel Davenport as Lord Bothwell. Historically in his early thirties at the time of these events, Bothwell is portrayed by the then 43-year-old Davenport with a middle-aged stolidity that utterly extinguishes any spark of dangerous magnetism or credible romantic passion. His lack of chemistry with Redgrave is palpable, making Mary’s desperate marriage to him seem inexplicable rather than tragically impulsive. Far more successful is the young Timothy Dalton as Darnley. Dalton captures the character’s initial gallantry and subsequent petulant decay with compelling vigour, and his chemistry with Redgrave is tangible and fraught. It is little surprise that a real-life romance blossomed between them during filming. However, even this performance is hampered by the script’s muddled handling of Darnley’s motivations and its clumsy, coy implication of a homosexual affair with Riccio—a subplot handled with more scandalised suggestion than substantive exploration.
Mary, Queen of Scots is a missed opportunity of considerable proportions. It assembles a peerless cast, led by two of the greatest actresses of their generation at the peak of their powers, and a story brimming with inherent drama. Yet, it delivers little more than a handsomely mounted, dramatically lethargic history lesson. Hamstrung by Hal B. Wallis’s outdated production ethos, Charles Jarrott’s pedestrian direction, and a fatally uneven script, the film fails to coalesce into a compelling whole. It should be watched as a curio, notable chiefly for the lightning Jackson captures in a bottle whenever she appears, and for the off-screen romance it sparked. As a piece of cinema, however, it is less a crown jewel than a costume drama rendered in dull, lifeless stone.
RATING: 4/10 (+)
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