The White Queen: romance, sex, magic, scowling, social snobbery and battles

The BBC's new Sunday night drama set in the Wars of the Roses might not quite tick all historical boxes, but it's likely to become required Sunday night viewing.

The forest floor is covered in snow. Into the clearing stumbles a lone soldier, his breath heavy as he drips a trail of blood. He pauses, panting and looking around nervously through the foliage. The camera descends from above, hot on his tail as he stumbles, shedding his helmet and clutching his wound. Then it begins; the music, low and discordant at first like a heartbeat, building to the rhythm of the rider in pursuit, becoming faster, louder. He falls and through the trees, his foe appears, helmeted astride a white horse, his sword drawn to his victim’s scream of terror. Elizabeth Woodville’s first husband is dead, killed by the man who would become her second.

Thus begins the story of The White Queen, which kicked off this Sunday on BBC1 and runs for ten episodes. Rarely has a series been so eagerly anticipated than this retelling of a Fifteenth Century romance that changed the course of a country’s politics. Fans of Philippa Gregory’s bestselling trilogy of novels, which tell the story of the Wars of the Roses through the eyes of its women, have been awaiting this day since plans were first announced to bring her characters to life. This lavish £25m collaboration between the BBC and STARZ, starring the enchanting Rebecca Ferguson as Elizabeth Woodville and Max Irons as her lusty King, should not disappoint them. Filmed in the medieval city of Bruges, it is as beautifully shot as it is located. Yet perhaps, as expected, it is a little more Romeo and Juliet than accurate medieval protocol.

The magnetism between Elizabeth and Edward is quickly established. Their first meeting, beneath the legendary Whittlebury oak, is touching and immediate. Small details add to the anticipation; her mother’s good luck charm, her son biting into a plum, the other waving on the King’s approach. Historical purists might object. It is unlikely to have happened like that in real life. Far from being a “way-side hussy”, Elizabeth had probably already encountered Edward in the Lancastrian court circles of their fathers, but this is an adaption of a novel for Sunday night viewing and the romantic legend makes for better television.

The on-screen attraction between the star-crossed lovers is real and believable. As Ferguson explained in a recent BBC interview, she and Irons “just clicked” with “amazing chemistry straight away”. Almost as convincing are the heavy-handed doubts of the Woodville men, whose early snarls and cynical warnings anticipate the image we have of Elizabeth “wading through blood” for this marriage, as her mother warns her. At the start, her male relations have the feeling of caricatures, deliberate created as foils for the new young king, but as the episode progressed, they were prevailed upon by the wisdom of women to wear white roses. Alongside Jacquetta, played by the impressive Janet McTeer, “commoner” Elizabeth states she is a match for any man and the audience believe her. Through this first episode, it was the pairing of mother and daughter which really stole the show. In a trilogy which presents an alternative perspective of the era through female eyes, these two were radiant.

Almost too radiant. Of course, it was partly the magic at work. In real life, accusations of witchcraft were made against Jacquetta at the instigation of the Earl of Warwick, depicted here in best shouty mode by the rugged James Frain. Yet Jacquetta was cleared by Parliament in January 1470 and no further evidence exists that she or her daughter attempted to practise the dark arts against their foes. However, the sorcery, and Jacquetta’s reputed descent from the goddess Melusine, adds another thread to the narrative which allows for the foreshadowing of future tragic events. Thus the first episode compounds the promise of future conflict, with Elizabeth’s vision of a woman in red with blood on her hands, and the need to protect her sleeping sons, whose future brothers would become known to history as the Princes in the Tower. The dark, misty scenes beside the river when the two women cast their threads, provides a balance to the romantic “boy fogged in lust” shots of the pair in the garden, or the domestic scenes of the family playing blind man’s buff.  Sorcery also gives the audience an alternative explanation of why Elizabeth is a “match for any man,” when, according to the standards of the day, she was not.

Charming as they are, Elizabeth and her mother as depicted in this episode are perhaps a little too clever, too confident and assured, for the reality of a protocol-conscious Fifteenth Century. Sometimes they even come across as a little smug. Initially, their cunning and womanly wisdom makes the Woodville men, Baron Rivers (Robert Pugh) and Anthony (Ben Lamb) a real life sophisticate, appear naïve, even a little crass. It is clear who wears the braies in the Woodville family. The capitulation of Rivers with the line “sometimes woman you even scare me” was rather a clumsy reinforcement of Jacquetta’s marriage to, as Warwick put it, a “grubby little squire”.

It was in the exchange with Duchess Cecily (Caroline Goodall) however, that Jacquetta, as her daughter’s mouthpiece, really overstepped the historical mark. The disapproving Duchess, who was known in real life as “proud Cis,” is too easily overcome by her social inferiors when they whip out her apparent “secret” affair with a French archer. Lost for words, she is silenced within minutes, almost cowed by them. While contemporary notions of “courtesy” dictated extreme forms of submission to the queen, this is a Cecily straight from the pages of a novel rather than the actual proud aristocrat who asserted her own right to rule.

But then again, there is nothing wrong with that. To attempt to map these fictional constructs on to their real counterparts is perhaps to miss the point. Novelists have no moral obligation to present the truth, it is their prerogative to exploit events for the purposes of entertainment. They are free to select and emphasise certain characteristics and ignore others, to merge and shape the past at will in order to structure a balanced narrative of highs and lows. They can even, horror of horrors for historians, alter the past if they wish to. If we get too hung up on playing a game of spot the inaccuracy, we may be in danger of missing out on a very enjoyable piece of Sunday night escapism. That is, so long as we can overlook the clanky old clichés such as “the wheel of fortune rises and it falls,” “the king has married from another house” and “the boy is fogged with lust”. Perhaps the charm of the episode might even allow us to embrace them.

The White Queen contained exactly what it promised; romance, sex, magic, scowling, social snobbery and battles. The opposing sides have been drawn up, of Lancaster and York, establishing a narrative we can anticipate unfolding to more of “Kingmaker” Warwick’s tight-lipped objections and Anthony Woodville’s bristling pity. James Frain, recently lauded for his performance as Thomas Cromwell in The Tudors, may well emerge to steal the show alongside Margaret Beaufort and the other York brothers, only briefly glimpsed in this first episode. Trouble clearly lies ahead. In author Philippa Gregory’s words, “these aren’t like normal family quarrels. If you move against somebody, its death for you or him – or her.” It is the Romeo and Juliet style of this first episode that was a particular strength and should ensure the continuing high viewing figures commanded by The Tudors and The Borgias, filling the old Downton Abbey slot as required Sunday night viewing. With this introduction giving us a glimpse of the other cast members waiting in the wings, The White Queen promises to develop into a more complex and satisfying drama.

Rebecca Ferguson as Elizabeth Woodville in the BBC's "The White Queen". Photograph: BBC/Company Pictures & ALL3MEDIA/Ed Miller

Amy Licence is a late medieval and early Tudor historian focusing on women's lives. She is the author of the forthcoming biography Anne Neville, Richard III’s Tragic Queen and her blog can be found here.

NICOLA TYSON, COURTESY SADIE COLES HQ, LONDON
Show Hide image

Dave Haslam's history of venues makes nightclub walls talk

Life After Dark: a History of British Nightclubs and Music Venues reveals the ghosts of hedonism past.

“If these walls could talk . . .” The cliché owes its force to the notion that buildings are sentient – the suggestion that what happens inside them leaves a trace element. We feel the power of this idea in very different ways as we tour, say, Versailles or Dachau. It’s an idea very much at play in the best passages of this book.

There is a wonderful moment early on when the author tours the Dean Street Townhouse building in Soho, central London, along with a few young members of staff. The location is now an upscale hotel and restaurant but, as Haslam explains to them, back in 1978 the basement hosted Billy’s nightclub. Billy’s was run by Steve Strange and played host to the burgeoning New Romantic movement, with the likes of Boy George and Spandau Ballet all trooping down the steps off Meard Street. Later on, in 1982, the ultra-hip original Goth club the Batcave opened its doors on the top floor of the same building, and the elevator would have ferried the likes of Robert Smith of the Cure and Marc Almond skywards.

The twentysomething staff don’t seem altogether sure who these people are, but Haslam goes further as he tells them (no doubt to further head-scratching) that the building has in fact been a nightclub since the 1920s, when it was called the Gargoyle. The people who danced and partied there over the decades would have included Henri Matisse, Tallulah Bankhead, Fred Astaire and Noël Coward, he says.

It is a fantastic example of the deep vein of hedonism you sense thrumming behind the walls of many buildings in such areas as Soho, and Haslam extends this approach throughout the book as he travels across Britain, digging into the history of the likes of the Leadmill in Sheffield, the Barrowland Ballroom in Glasgow, the Cavern in Liverpool and the Free Trade Hall in Manchester, often tracing the origins of the venues back to Victorian times. It makes for a fascinating read, especially if you have ever stood in an old music venue and wondered (as I have often done) about the many previous generations whose fights, fashions, frugs and frocks have played out on the very boards you are treading.

Along the way, there are in-depth, illuminating interviews with figures as diverse as the novelist David Peace (on Goth clubs in Leeds) and James Barton, the co-founder of Cream (on the problems of running a nightclub in a city rife with gang warfare), as well as less familiar names such as Hyeonje Oh, the current owner of the Surakhan restaurant on Park Row in Bristol. Haslam explains to the amiable Mr Oh (in a wonderful scene reminiscent of that visit to Dean Street Townhouse) that, back in the mid-Eighties, the basement of his restaurant played host to the Dug Out club, where the careers of Massive Attack and Nellee Hooper began. None of this means very much to the restaurateur, until Haslam points out that Nellee Hooper has worked with Madonna. Mr Oh has heard of Madonna.

On occasion, the book slides into potted histories of the youth movements that came out of the nightclubs it is documenting. So we get a few pages on the emergence of punk rock, a few pages on the rise of acid house – nothing, frankly, that anyone with a passing interest in music or youth culture wouldn’t already know. I’m not sure we need to hear again that “one of the people energised by the Sex Pistols [at the Manchester Free Trade Hall] was Tony Wilson, who arranged for the band to premiere their ‘Anarchy in the UK’ single . . . on his Granada TV show”, except in a book aimed at the most general reader (which a book with the subtitle of this one surely is not).

Haslam is on much more interesting ground in the basement of a Korean restaurant that once throbbed to the heavy dub reggae whose influence shaped a generation of music performers and producers. Or when he describes the progress of the Coliseum in Harlesden, north-west London, from cinema in 1915, to fleapit punk rock venue in the Seventies – where, in March 1977, you could have seen the Clash (along with three other bands, and a couple of kung fu films) for £1.50 – to the Wetherspoons pub that stands on its site today. In these pages he asks you to imagine Daddy G of Massive Attack working the decks where the crates of produce are now stacked, to see Joe Strummer’s right leg pumping just inches from where office workers now sip discounted Sauvignon. In these pages, he makes the walls talk.

John Niven is the author of the novels “Kill Your Friends” (Windmill Books) and “The Sunshine Cruise Company” (William Heinemann)

Life After Dark: a History of British Nightclubs and Music Venues by Dave Haslam is published by Simon & Schuster (480pp, £20)

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war