The Coronation - A Theatrical Reading, and why it matters

Penny Mordaunt carries the sword at the coronation

It's not very surprising to find people talking about the coronation as theatre. Great costumes, spectacular setting, a carefully rehearsed rhythmic exchange between spoken text and music, some remarkable characters.... The Guardian has even published a review by Michael Billington, in which he calls it "Shakespearean...  immensely touching", and gives it four stars. However, if you look at what actually happens within the coronation ceremony, it starts to seem a lot less theatrical than it may at first appear. And a lot more significant.

The impression of theatricality comes, I think, from the fact that most of us watched the event on television. That was true of the previous coronation too: a lot of British households bought their first TV in 1953 so they could watch the live broadcast. It was not true of any coronation prior to that, though, and the form of the event is very long established: many parts of it go right back to the crowning of Edgar at Bath Abbey in 973. The televised version is deceptive, in that it shows to the "audience" what is happening in the coronation chair and at the High Altar. Our received image of the ceremony is so ingrained from the endlessly repeated footage of Archbishop Geoffrey Fisher crowning Elizabeth II that I was genuinely quite shocked to discover that the coronation chair did not in fact face the public, but rather formed a barrier between them and the very intimate space occupied by the monarch and the clergy. Add to that the fact that Westminster Abbey has a choir screen, and you realise that the supposedly privileged congregation is very much excluded from what is actually happening.

The anointing screens for Charles III

So these recent televised coronations are very different from any others, in that they invite spectatorship, and hence feel theatrical. There's a very real tension in this: a tension made clear by the insistence of the King that the moment of his anointing should be hidden entirely from public view, behind three screens. This was not what happened in 1953 or before, when the anointing took place under a canopy; but Elizabeth II stipulated that the footage of her anointing should never be shown again. Even this still image of the canopy is a rare find.

The anointing canopy for Elizabeth II

The reason that the monarchs are so wary of the anointing becoming spectacle is very simple: they believe it to be a particularly sacred moment, in which they are consecrated as sovereign. Handel's famous anthem sets a text from 1 Kings 1:38-40 - a text which has been used in every coronation since Edgar's - "Zadok the Priest and Nathan the Prophet anointed Solomon King."  In other words, it is in this physically intimate and vulnerable moment that God places the monarch at the head of the nation. The fact that this is  still not permitted to become spectacle makes it clear that what happens here is still regarded as real. Our hereditary Head of State, referred to in one of the few public-facing moments of the ceremony as "your undoubted King", holds his office because God put him there.

If you think about it, what other theoretical justification can there be for an hereditary monarchy? Other "modernised" European monarchies tend not to bother with coronations: their theoretical underpinning seems to be that "it's just the way it is", and a lot of the debate around monarchy in the UK is also couched in those terms, making it much easier to accept and muddle on. But it won't do really, will it? 

Think about what happens in the coronation when the the Sword of State and Sword of Offering has been strapped to the King's side as part of his sovereign regalia.  It is then passed on to the Lord President of the Council, who represents the King's Ministers, the Executive arm of the government. All the fuss made about Penny Mordaunt's sword carrying skills just serves to obscure the very potent symbolism of this: the government receives the power which this sword represents as something delegated from the King, who in turn receives it from God. And where are the people in this? Nowhere to be seen.

Of course, it is often argued that "in reality" the government draws its power from an elected Parliament, and that we actually live in a democracy. I beg to differ. There are many powers exercised by the executive which are in fact the prerogative powers of the King, and which do not require the consent of Parliament. This was how Tony Blair was able to take us to war in Iraq without a vote in Parliament, even in the face of the largest popular protest in British history. There was nothing remotely democratic about it. It's only one example - there are many more - but it makes the point abundantly clear. Parliament may draft, debate and pass legislation, but it is the King who signs it into law, and there are many precedents for changes being made in order for the monarch to feel comfortable doing this. Many laws, including recent ones, include exceptions for the practice in royal households.

On Saturday, the Metropolitan Police arrested 64 anti-monarchy protestors, not for any public disorder, but on suspicion that they might commit disorder. Many activists and commentators have responded with justifiable concern, mentioning the "right" to peaceful protest. But the problem with this argument is that we don't have a proper Bill of Rights in this country, nor can we have unless and until sovereignty is vested in the people. While the Head of State remains an hereditary "undoubted King", consecrated by God, then we simply cannot say that he is "Not My King": he is, whether we like it or not, and we have no say in the matter. So the Police were correct - we cannot protest against the Coronation. 

We are not citizens, but subjects. In the 21st century, this is surely not tenable.

I had best include a disclaimer on this post, that what is argued here is my personal opinion only and does not represent any political stance by Border Crossings, which is a charity. 

Brook's Battlefield

Battlefield: Ezy Nzaramba

The late Pierre Boulez, David Attenborough and Peter Brook all seem to be proving it: 90 is the age to be.  Many cultures have known for a long time that we need to value our Elders - at last the West seems to be catching up.  And Brook's production Battlefield, created at the age of 90, is actually his finest work for some time.

It's a return to the territory of his famous Mahabharata production - although where that was epic and vast, this is intimate, brief and personal.  This seems to me to offset some of the criticisms Rustom Bharucha made of Mahabharata: unlike the earlier production, Battlefield does not turn the Hindu myth into a Hollywood blockbuster or a Shakespearean tragedy.  Rather, it makes it the occasion for contemplation, introspection, and a complex emotional journey.  The play begins after the climax of Mahabharata, the great war, and deals with the question Eliot asked of the contemporary age: "After such knowledge, what forgiveness?"

It is an urgent, necessary question for an artist to be asking at the end of his life, in what may well be his last piece of work.  In many ways, the play embodies that sense of an unending quest, with older characters attempting to make sense of the world they are about to leave.  Bhishma, who can only die with his own agreement, clings to life in the face of a mortal wound, speaking of how a dying man can long for honey.  When at last he leaves his body, in a moment of extraordinary theatrical simplicity and  power, it is his mother, the River goddess Ganga, who expresses a terrifying, astonishing grief.

I'm making it all sound quite heavy - but actually the play is full of humour too, with Bhishma and other characters telling parables, which are winningly enacted using only cloths and sticks for set and props.  The story of the worm crossing the road who loves his life is at once endearing and provocative.

Being Brook, all of this leads towards a spiritual meaning; and, being Hindu, that meaning is essentially one of resignation.  Yudishtira, left to rule in the aftermath of the war, comes to accept the suffering that has gone before, recognising it as yet another "illusion" (the Sanskrit term is Maya).  Both Michael Billington and Aleks Sierz have challenged this in their reviews of the production, asking whether we can really accept (say) the suffering of the Syrian refugees as something of no real consequence.  This dismissal of human pain could seem particularly callous in relation to the play, given the presence of Rwandan performer Carole Karemera at its heart.  Hinduism can be criticised for its acquiescence in human suffering, partly the result of its cultural origins in India, and its role in the maintenance of power structures.  However, in absolute terms, the theology is right - human lives are tiny, inconsequential things in terms of the scale of space and time, of course they are.  But, as Sartre argued, that doesn't mean we should not care about them - it simply means we have to acknowledge that it is our own decision to choose morality, and that the compassion we feel for the Syrian child or the Rwandan widow is our own compassion, willed and active.  Strangely, this makes our humanity more significant, rather than less.  It is Carole Karemera who gives expression to this deep grief in our condition, through the prolonged wail of the bereaved mother-goddess.