There comes a time in every young man’s life when he must put away childish things and become the king of England. Or an emperor of Rome. Or a knight. Or do something else grave and old and muddy. And when I say young man, I really mean young actor. And when I say young actor, I really mean Timothée Chalamet—surely the young actor-iest young actor of them all at the moment. Chalamet has heard the same call as those before him, to pick up a sword and get to bellowing in dark rooms while serious men in robes look on.
He does so in The King, a Netflix film which had its world premiere here at the Venice International Film Festival on Monday. The film is directed by David Michôd, who co-wrote the script with Joel Edgerton, the pair basing the film on some of Shakespeare’s Henry plays. The language isn’t Elizabethan English, but it does have a windy heft to it, both elegant and a little silly. It’s a movie written for a lot of dignified male thespians to chew into, full of adages about the nature of rule and war. You know, the stuff so many actors (mostly the straight ones, in my experience) dream of doing.
Was it a dream for Chalamet? Who knows. But he is a theater kid, an extraordinarily talented one at that, so I’d imagine playing Hal as he turns into Henry held some innate appeal. He thrills to the occasion.
Chalamet is, at first, distracting, what with his new English accent and his Shane McCutcheon cosplay. (The Haircut comes later.) It’s just little Timmy Chalamet, doing an old-timey thing! But as Michôd’s film unfolds, Hal sobering up to take the throne reluctantly bequeathed to him by his father, Chalamet swells to fit the material. He is wiry, pensive, boyish—but he is a king, haughty and regal but decent.
I think what works about the performance, really, is the earnestness. Chalamet is eager to do a good job, just as Henry is when he finally decides to shape up and reign over the land blessed by St. George. Henry’s transition from drunken whorer (the movie’s word!) to a guy who genuinely wants to rule England is pretty hastily done—it literally happens in one brief scene—which gives a lot of the ensuing drama a whiff of a quality common in movies about someone who finds themselves suddenly swept up in a new career or lifestyle. Why do you care so much, Henry? You just got here!
The King also suffers from a larger why problem. Without the Shakespearean language, this is just an ahistorical story about a king and a battle. We’ve had plenty of those before, and little about Michôd’s direction distinguishes his film from a host of others—like, say, last year’s Netflix festival entry, Outlaw King. The battle of Agincourt is staged with the appropriate clang and squish, a meaty tangle of metal and men that gets the heart rate up and the stomach plunging with dread. But it’s nothing fancy, really, nothing newfangled or inventive. This is a pretty straight-down-the-middle period war-king film, a true Boy Movie of respectable pedigree but no real distinction.
Which means a lot of the raison d’etre for the film lands on Chalamet’s bony shoulders. And as a showcase for what he can do when he isn’t slinking longingly around northern Italy or being dreamy-pretentious in Sacramento, The King fares quite well. Chalamet does robust work, straightening his lanky posture as he goes, rising up into the role like a man ascendant.
He gets some good supporting help from Edgerton, teddy bear tough as Falstaff (it’s a decidedly macho take on the character), and Sean Harris as Henry’s closest court ally. All the various stern men in the movie find the right shading, gracefully handling the script’s determined weight. They’re all sturdy walls for Chalamet to bounce off of.
And then there’s Robert Pattinson, matinee idol of a half-generation ago, who shows up for a few scenes as the sneering, lewd dauphin of France. He’s got a riotous wig and a French waiter from The Simpsons accent (say chowder!) that had the Europeans in my audience hooting with laughter. (I couldn’t quite tell if they were irked or amused.) It’s a delightfully ridiculous performance in a movie that otherwise takes itself very seriously.
Maybe I’m being sentimental, but I saw a certain generosity in Pattinson’s gonzo turn. Let me overdo it, he seems to be saying to Chalamet, Pattinson baring his throat for the critic wolves so Chalamet can feel that much freer to try something big. There these two actors are, meeting on one’s journey away from the youthquake while the other ventures toward fledgling stardom. What a peaceful transition of power that is. Has a crown ever passed hands so sweetly?
