Spurred on by the success of those Jane Austen movies and Marie Antoinette, teenybopper milquetoast is taken to the acceptable, expected level in The Young Victoria. Although I usually don’t go in for this type of overblown Masterpiece Theater stuff, I still gave it the opportunity to fail in making me feel anything. I’m not going to beat up too much on this movie; it doesn’t really deserve it – both in the sense it’s not unique in its blandness, and that it’s simply not worth the effort.
Like Marie Antoinette or Elizabeth, The Young Victoria wants to take a queen that American audiences can recognize (by name, at least) and make her seem controversial or somehow exploding with mental strife. But mostly wear big, pretty dresses. In this sense The Young Victoria already shot itself in the foot because the “controversy” is pretty lackluster. Okay, so her mom’s lover had her very tightly controlled before she became queen, but that’s mostly expressed in the fact lil’ Vicky has to hold someone’s hand while walking up or down stairs. There’s also some hubbub because she’s young, and because of her (mother’s?) ladies in waiting. Of course, the latter wasn’t really clear because there are only like six scenes in the whole movie without Emily Blunt in them.
But then again, because Victoria suffers from Queen Amadala syndrome, there isn’t much to her aside from the big, pretty dresses. Her courtship and marriage to Prince Albert is, of course, entirely phoned in: she wants him to write her letters, they kiss in the rain, he pushes the hair off her shoulder. It’s all very romantic in a safe, predictable way without any real eroticism. Sex is hinted at but never shown (they get ready for bed, then it fades to black), clearing up any doubt who this movie is for. (There are also several text inserts that dole out Wikipedia definitions and historical facts to help clear up just what a regent is.) Pure PG-13, it’s all for moms and teenage girls looking for a decent Saturday matinee. A post-film burger at Culvers may or may not follow, but who cares because that movie had such pretty dresses! Could you imagine wearing one every day?
Or at least, it’s what a movie ostensibly for those audiences are supposed to contain. It’s certainly not Ghost World – any sort of connection to actual teenage emotion derived from a stifling environment is nonexistent. The film’s extremely linear structure, adagio tempo editing, and competently-framed/well-lit shots don’t complicate things either. It’s a very clean, white world where substance or minorities have no place. So yeah, it is pretty fucking offensive that we’re expected to feel sad or happy for her, let alone act like this is a story that needs to be told. At least “My Super Sweet Sixteen”, though treading similar territory, actively encourages you to hate the rich people you’re spying on. I guess The Young Victoria may have it’s place among some present-day princesses whose parents shower them with money and impose an updated suburban version of the Kensington System, but most likely it’ll be quickly forgotten. Except for the pretty dresses, of course.
And now, here’s some motherfucking punk rock:
