Tamara's Reviews > Monarch: The Life and Reign of Elizabeth II

(In reality, more like 3.5 stars.)

There's a scene in the 2006 film, "The Queen,"* where Cherie Blair, wife of then-Prime Minister Tony Blair, accuses him of falling (platonically, of course) in love with the Queen. "I don't know why I'm why I'm surprised," she says, "At the end of the day, all Labour Prime Ministers go gaga for the Queen."

Can the same, then, be said for royal biographers of the Queen?

Because somehow, at some point between his previous book on Elizabeth II (Majesty) and this one, Mr. Lacey changed his tune, considerably - from one of a certain degree of objectivity (pairing awe with realism in a wonderfully readable way) to one that distinctly and unabashedly sounds remarkably like "God Save the Queen." In this book, Her Majesty can do no wrong - and if she appears to have done so, it is not her fault. Mr. Lacey presents a much more passive version of Elizabeth II than he did in the first book, with the only initiative taken is through her "cutting, dry" sense of humour. Much of the negative in this book is written as having been done to her, from the very beginning of her life, and it might be written so as to reflect that the Queen is getting older. (But then so is Mr. Lacey, right? By that logic?) And it's a bit of a shame, because the vibrant Queen depicted in Majesty has been watered down to a lesser version. Perhaps it was to my detriment as a reader that I read them both in succession; I am sure the Queen's candy coating in this book would not have been so noticeable if I hadn't read the first.

(The differences between the books manifested themselves right from the first glance at this book, in the font used. The more scholarly, almost textbook-like font of Majesty has been replaced by a more flighty, fanciful, fluffy kind of style that made it impossibly hard for me to concentrate before my eyes became accustomed to it. Did the change in tone necessitate the different font, or did the font selected necessitate a change in tone, I wonder?)

All of this, though, could be palatable - even the impossible characterisation of Prince Philip as a "man's man" - and wondrous, mostly because of Mr. Lacey's sublimely, elegantly magnificent prose. If I were ever a public figure and in need of a biography, I would want this man's words to shape my life, because his writing really is wonderful. And the closing lines (which I will re-create below) are what earned the book the extra half-a-star, in my eyes. And, in fact, it could have been the redeeming point, if it had not been for his revisionist, disappointing handling of certain events.

He chose to shape this book around a single week - the one most assured to get him the highest level of reader and press interest - in all of the entirety of Queen Elizabeth's then-fifty-year reign: the week, say it with me, that Diana, Princess of Wales died. The book opens with a prologue about the speech depicted in the film mentioned above, and spends more time pitting the Queen against her former-daughter-in-law than it does exploring other topics which have arisen in the literally twenty-five years between Majesty and Monarch (which is a shame). Look elsewhere for Thatcher-Windsor relations.

And he artfully points fingers and laughs at people who elevated Diana to goddess level, almost diving into their faults (and hers) with relish. I'm convinced that he does so to conceal his own hand in the matter. Nowhere is there made mention of his own previous book about Diana, which I loved. I suspect he's embarrassed of it now, or something, leaving me to ask, like a spurned lover, "What happened to you, Robert? Was any of it real?"

But anyway, aside from that, it's not a bad read. Everyone, at some point, appears petulant, but then they also have their moments of splendour (except for Prince Edward and his wife, Sophie - he just doesn't like them). Both of which, when in the hands of Mr. Lacey, are transformed into something definitely worth reading.

Here's the ending I talked about:

Elizabeth II has, God willing, many more years in which to increase her store of memories - and, probably, jubilees. But already she has a rich stock of remembrances to dwell upon: dusting the Little Welsh House with Margaret, the first corgi, the first horse; old Queen Mary's wooden teaching blocks; her gruff, royal grandfather's soft, tobacco-smelling beard; playing croquet on the lawn with Philip on a summer's afternoon in Dartmouth; Sir Henry Marten sucking on his handkerchief; dancing the Hokey-Cokey in the streets on VE night; resting with Papa against a boulder on the hills above Balmoral; cradling the newborn Charles in her arms as Philip came in sweaty from playing squash; Winston Churchill in his frock coat; Harold Wilson puffing on his pipe; Patrick Plunket bringing in the presents to go through at Christmas; wise old Charteris twinkling over his half-glasses; laughing with Porchey when Highclere won at Chantilly - and, perhaps, when the lens of memory is not so rose-tinted, the rasp of Windsor's smoke catching in her throat on a chill November afternoon at the end of her annus horribilis, and the clock ticking down in the Chinese Dining Room that sunny Friday evening after Diana died, with the lights bright and the TV camera staring, and the sound of the crowd, her affectionate subjects and masters, murmuring as they milled around the flowers stacked up against railings outside.

There is one more paragraph after that, but I would like to leave it there. Pure perfection. Perhaps now, you don't even have to read the book, actually, because that's a nice and tidy summary! Just kidding. (And if you know me at all, you understand why that paragraph got me so much.)

*in the credits of which, by the way, was included a thanks to one Mr. Robert Lacey