Like many media consumers, I do so enjoy the Netflix original series The Crown. The lush sets and the almost extravagant costumes bring to life the world of the Windsor dynasty, a world both every so modern and ever so Victorian at the same time. In perhaps my favorite episode – “Smoke and Mirrors” – the exiled Duke of Windsor, himself a former monarch, hosts some curious Americans for a watch party in Paris to see from afar the coronation of the Duke’s niece, Elizabeth II. When an one of his guests characterizes the elaborate inauguration liturgy as crazy, the Duke replies:
“Pull away the veil, and what are you left with? An ordinary young woman of modest ability and little imagination. But wrap her up like this, anoint her with oil, and hey, presto, what do you have? A goddess.”
The Crown, “Smoke and Mirrors”
Whether this is an accurate view of the Queen’s character or not, the Duke’s reply reflects what so many have made of monarchs and political leaders: bridges between the sacred and the profane, figures who can transcend the space between political factions just as they transcend the gap between heaven and earth.
By the time the Queen asks Labour leader Harold Wilson to form a government in season 3, however, the tenor and the mood have changed. No longer does Britannia’s sovereign stand bestride the world, holding sway over countless colonies and dominions. In the Britain of the 1960s, the Queen presides over an empire in decline, her colonies severing ties Albion and her dominions drifting further and further away. At home, things are little better, as Britain is no longer quite the economically and culturally dominant force it once had been. At one point, Prince Philip, whose own family had been deposed from its rule in Greece, fears that the Labour Party will want to rid Britain of her monarchy entirely. The sacrality of the ruler, it seems, no longer holds quite the same grip it once did.
In The Crown, we see the bipolar relationship between leadership and the people over whom it wishes to preside. On the one hand, we see an ancient and storied institution bedecked with jewels and clothed in the finest of robes, superintending the relationship between the up above and the down below. Rulership of this kind would be well recognized in France, where like in England it was widely believed the king’s touch could heal the sick, or in Hungary, where the physical crown of St. Stephen itself was believed to embody a special covenant between the Blessed Virgin Mary and the Hungarian kingdom. So too would Scandinavian peasants who held their leaders responsible for the weather, and peoples of the ancient Mediterranean, who believed the sacrifices of rulers could uniquely appease the gods and bring prosperity to the people. The sacrality of kings secured the peace of the realm.
Such may have been news, however, to Richard II, who, in spite of his kingly office, found himself deposed and locked away in Pontefract Castle, where he possibly starved to death. Henry VI as well might have been surprised to learn that his mere royalty should have stabilized his kingdom and secured his person, being as he was deposed not only once, but twice. The history of monarchies would seem to suggest that they represent institutions and norms and practices that all work rather well, until rather suddenly they do not. In The Crown, the Queen’s royal office is clearly not thought to be enough to keep the Windsors in place. If it were, neither Philip nor anybody else would ever for a moment think they might be in danger.
The Crown, however, is fiction, and so too are the stories we choose to tell about monarchy and political leadership. Monarchies are indeed magical, but as any good stage magician knows, the key to effective magic is that those it is performed on must let themselves believe in it. The king can do no wrong because we believe he can do no wrong. His body is the body of the realm because we believe it to be so. There is no miracle that occurs when sacred charism touches the monarch. Strife does not become peace, and ill wills do not become good ones. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain, for to do so would ruin the illusion.
You may dress your rulers in whatever garb you choose, but liturgies, traditions, and norms cannot long bar the way of empty bellies, despairing people, and conniving courtiers. The Carolingians did away with the Merovingians. The fiscal and social crisis of the ancien regime led to the slow demise of French monarchy, and caeseropapist Russia did away with its Czar. A crowned head cannot prevent conflict or ease strife merely by virtue of being crowned. Others must believe they can do so, and indeed want them to.
Royal coronations have this in common with democratic elections: the mere fact of their occurring does not guarantee anybody will respect them as a basis for governing. Coronations, like elections, are not efficacious as spell-casting merely because they happen, they are efficacious because people believe them to be efficacious. If they wish to continue in service to their people, kings and presidents both most contend with the madding crowd, which is always closer than you think. What is needed isn’t more democracy – whatever that means – or a crowned head. These are all but tools in the hands of those willing to use them. Needed, rather, is a populace willing to be governed, that believes in those who govern them, and that believes in the credibility of the governing system itself.
Anyone who has seen an inauguration of any kind knows there is a certain kind of magic involved, and that magical element is important to help us understand the nature and practice of authority. But politics is also deeply dirty, and messy, and complicated. To emphasize the role of the magical is all well and good, but to emphasize it at the expense of the messy is to embark on a fool’s errand. People need myths, and legends, and a bit of sorcery to make sense of the world. But they also need to feed their families, to be safe in their homes, and to have some confidence in the future. The magic is fine as far as it goes, but when it runs up against the brute reality of life as it is lived, and the smoke clears, and the mirrors are smashed, there has to be something left worth saving.