Film review: The King's Speech (Director: Tom Hooper)

The film starts with a scene of almost unbearable suspense and tension: A man (Colin Firth) waiting for his first public speech broadcast via radio to begin. A body tightened at the brink of breaking, a face reduced to a pained mask, we see a man expecting his own very public humiliation. This is set against the seasoned radio announcer training his voice in an almost comic fashion. When the man walks out to face the crowd, it is more than a few steps to a microphone. It is more like the final battle in High Noon. But the shot does not come, nothing comes except a few stuttered syllables, then silence.

It is the story of Albert, Duke of York, the second son of King George V and later King George VI, the father of Elisabeth II, a man still fondly remembered by many as the king who led the Empire through World War II, who stayed in London with his family when the German bombs were falling.

Tom Hooper's film, however, shows no hero but an insecure man who cannot believe in himself because of the handicap which he cannot control and which he therefore allows to control him. It follows him as he fails again and again with renowned therapists before meeting his last resort, an Australian amateur actor turned sppech therapist (Geoffrey Rush) which he is goaded into seeing by his wife (Helena Bonham-Carter)..

The man who walks into the therapist's office is a deeply repressed person, so burdened by outside pressure, his own demands and a stifling environment, he has been turned almost incapable of living on his own. His speechlessness, the film suggests, maybe an effect or at least a symptom of the repressive nture of the environment he lives in. Hooper paints this world in pale, cold colors, there is an icy feel to it, an invisible fog that swallows up all light and joy.

How this(self-)repressed man, this man so serious that his desire to do right almost paralyses him, slowly, painfully and even against his will, opens up, how he develops first a fragile trust, later an unlikely friendship with the would-be actor, how he retreats again into his shell before giving it a second try, is fascinating to watch, particularly as it happens all in Colin Firth's face. When in the end, he gives his famous speech announcing Britain's entry into the war, softly underscored with the Allegretto from Beethoven's Symphony Nr. 7, the quiet struggle, the exhausting effort, the total commitment it takes to give this speech, create a triumph as unglamorous as it is complete. It is this man, unlikeliest of all, gives his nation hope. No High Noon, just a dedication to duty, in the best possible sense.

Thsubtle, minimalistic manner in which Colin Firth takes us through all nuances of the Duke's and later the King's struggles is truly memorable, his Oscar well deserved. The secret hero, however,  Helena Bonham-Carter playing the Duke's/King's wife, a ray of light in a stifling universe, with her direct yet aways appropriate honesty and wit, a catalyst and symbol of truth in a world where truth is dominated by protocol. In the end, his triumph is hers, too. And ours, in a way.