How I See It

Controversy was stalking ‘The Crown’ – then one episode changed everything

The new series of The Crown had a run for its money, last week, when Zara Tindall – the niece of the King – bounded along a rope bridge and threw herself into the arms of her burly rugby-champ husband, newly released from three weeks of mud-bathing, budgie-smuggling and anus-gobbling in the Australian jungle. Good luck recreating that on a cold set in Elstree with Emily Blunt and James Corden.

You’ll find me risible but I had a lump in my throat when those two were reunited. This was not enormously surprising, as I’ve been moved to tears by most displays of marital or family love ever since my daughter was born. (I also had a lump in my throat when Matt Hancock was reunited with Gina Coladangelo, though in that case it was something coming up.)

But also, I really like the

Tindalls. This is mainly from remote observation, although I did once meet them, in the kitchen of a Cardiff TV studio. They weren’t married then. Mike Tindall had come along to play a poker tournament. Zara, who was there in a private capacity to watch and support him (a shadow, perhaps, of watching him 17 years later face similarly gruelling challenges with a marginally less weird group of people), came into the kitchen and asked very shyly if she could make a cheese sandwich.

I loved her for that. I know it’s sycophantic to admire a royal just for being normal, but in that context it wasn’t normal. Poker players live a rarefied life at the best of times, and were at their most high-handed in those days. The place was full of aggro men who turned up late, kept everyone waiting, refused to go to makeup and insisted that taxis be sent to collect steaks for them from local restaurants. You’d think it was a gathering of Qatari sheikhs, not a bunch of shifty gamblers pretending to be pawnbrokers because they thought that sounded grand. Zara Phillips was the only person in the building who behaved with any deference to anybody.

Nevertheless, in the competition to be more of a talking point than the actual royals (which is tricky when one of them has just done a jungle reality show, one of them has freshly ascended the throne after decades of waiting, one of them has run away to America with a famous actress and one of them is accused of being a sex offender), The Crown is still doing pretty well. There has been a fiery controversy over whether or not it’s fictional, and it’s been made very clear that some royals have been hurt by what they see as cruel misrepresentation. Even John Major has spoken out furiously against the show, and John Major is played by Jonny Lee Miller, all sexy and reasonable. (I bet he’s secretly pleased.)

It’s a shame, all this fuss, because millions of us adore The Crown and have been so looking forward to this new series. We don’t want it ruined by the thought of real people being hurt!

Mind you, I’m a snowflake.

I worry about everyone being unhappy, even the King. That being so, I was suspicious of the opening episodes and the damaging knowledge of realworld pain.

In the event, the notorious bit where Charles whispers to John Major about an early abdication is so obviously invented, it doesn’t really reflect on anyone. But I couldn’t bear to see a pretend William and Harry cuddling a pretend Diana. That sort of pain is far too precious and raw. Most of all, I was shocked to see a depiction of the funeral of Leonora Knatchbull, who died aged five in 1991, and of her mother’s grief. I’ve heard nothing of this in the press. If it was done without the blessing of that child’s family, it is inexcusable.

I was just about to write off the whole series, when one last bite transformed everything. Episode three – the back story of a certain Mohamed Fayed, en route towards the Royal family like an iceberg heading for the Titanic (or vice versa) – is absolutely glorious. It shows us how he hired Sydney Johnson, the Duke of Windsor’s former valet, to learn English ways. It’s funny, it’s heartbreaking and it resets the centre of gravity on character and race. It has wit, power and momentousness; as a baby is born: “Your name will be Emad El-Din Mohamed Abdel Mena’em Fayed, but I will call you... Dodi.”

If this episode were a feature film, it would win Oscars.

But I remind you, I’m a snowflake. I love that shizzle.

You might hate it. For me, it jerked tears, changed minds and renewed faith in one of TV’s great modern series.

Also, of course, the performances are irresistible – most notably the peerless Imelda Staunton as monarch. Staunton is a walking, breathing answer to the question of how one can make drama about real people: she plays the unknowability. She is both real and contained, unreadable and known, which is a bit magical.

So, maybe I’ll be able to watch the death of Diana in these people’s hands. God knows it crippled me when it happened for real. Back in 1997, I was on the sobbing side of that national chasm. I cried, I went to Kensington Palace, I left flowers. We were millions – and yet so were those who despised the monarchy, or who loved the monarchy and hated the sentiment.

We didn’t have the word “snowflake” then. But the more I think about it, the more I realise: Diana’s death was the beginning of the culture wars.

I couldn’t bear to see a pretend William and Harry cuddling a pretend Diana