Queens, Princesses, and the Battle of the Sexes in ‘The Lion In Winter’

Written by Jackson Adler. 

James Goldman’s 1964 historical play The Lion In Winter: A Comedy In Two Acts has twice been adapted to the screen, first in 1968 starring Peter O’Toole and Katharine Hepburn, and again in 2003 as a made-for-TV movie starring Sir Patrick Stewart and Glenn Close. When Goldman originally wrote his play, he attempted to make it as historically accurate as possible, but time has shown that some of his sources were incorrect in their information. However, the power of these characters is true to their historical counterparts, and Goldman’s dialogue and pacing have stood the test of time. While both screen adaptations are heavy handed with the moments of drama, and the second adaptation forgets that it’s a comedy altogether, which actually takes away from the strength of these characters. Their strength lies in being able to laugh at the terrible or dangerous situations in which they find themselves, and this is particularly true of the female lead, Eleanor of Aquitaine, who declares that smiling is “the way [she] register[s] despair.” Indeed, while the 2003 adaptation shows Eleanor’s war with her husband Henry II of England at the beginning of the movie, and shows her in armor and taking part in the action, to take away or lessen Eleanor’s sense of humor is to take away both her greatest weapon and greatest defenses. Katharine Hepburn’s delivery of Eleanor’s sharp wit depicts a woman of power, strength, and ambition. In the 1964 adaptation, it is not necessary to show Eleanor in battle because we can already tell that she has done much and ruled long just from the way she speaks and carries herself. Glenn Close rages, screams, and cries, but Katharine Hepburn as Eleanor is allowed by her director to simply be a badass and give no fucks, much like Katharine Hepburn herself.

The story of The Lion In Winter focuses on Henry II of England’s midlife crisis during a partial family reunion at Christmas with an incredibly dysfunctional family. The play was finished in 1964, only a year after the release of The Feminine Mystique, and appeared on Broadway in 1966, the year of the founding of the National Organization for Women (NOW). Much of the conflict in the play is between Eleanor and Henry, with Eleanor having been locked up for years by her husband for challenging his rule, much like middle and upper class women were confined to the home after World War II. This comparison would not have been so easily lost on the audience of the 1968 film, especially with Hepburn’s film history in the backs of their minds. The 2003 film could still have been powerful in spite of the different cultural context, but when combined with the lack of humor, and therefore a disruption of the pacing required by Goldman’s dialogue, it falls flat. The 2003 film’s saving grace is Yuliya Vysotskaya as Alais. The French princess Alais was raised with Eleanor and her family since she was betrothed to Henry’s and Eleanor’s second son Richard (the Lionheart). Eleanor was her surrogate mother, but after Eleanor is locked up, Alais becomes Henry’s mistress. Alais does not joke as much as most of the other characters, mainly because there are “Kings, queens, knights everywhere [she] look[s] and [she’s] the only pawn,” and she’s sick of their shit. She has never been permitted to rule any part of land, or any army of the any kind, unlike most all the other characters. As she says “[She] hasn’t got a thing to lose. That makes [her] dangerous.” Vysotskaya’s delivery of these lines of flawless, showing that while she lacks political power of her own, she has fierce determination to keep her self autonomy. The 1968 film attempted to contract Hepburn’s Eleanor with a soft portrayal of Alais by Jane Merrow, highlighting the fact that Henry would in many ways prefer a younger, more docile, and not as uppity female companion. However, this conflicts with how the character of Alais is written. At first glance she may seem and even purposefully act submissive to Henry, but her first act and line in the story are in defiance to Henry, refusing to come down from her room to interact with the family, whom she accurately sees as enemies. Jane Merrow’s portrayal of Alais forgets that she was raised by the powerful and independent Eleanor for a majority of her life, and while she may know how to pretend to be submissive in order to get what she wants, she can be just as fierce as any of the other characters. She proves this by almost getting Henry to lock up his surviving sons for life when the chance arises for Henry to annul his marriage with Eleanor in order to marry Alais and start a line of heirs of their own. Alais’ dream of becoming Henry’s powerful queen almost comes true, largely due to her own actions.

While the 1968 film does well at depicting Henry’s mid-life crises through his relationships with the women in his life, Alais’ character and her relationship with Eleanor is undermined. In the story, Alais and Eleanor share a particularly beautiful scene that briefly passes the Bechdel Test. In the scene, the true reason why Alais has been so cold to Eleanor in spite of Eleanor’s warmth toward her is revealed. Alais has heard that Eleanor poisoned Rosamund, Henry’s former mistress, and fears that the ambitious Eleanor might do the same to her despite their past mother-daughter bond. When Eleanor claims she never had Rosamund poisoned, Alais throws herself into Eleanor’s arms and starts to cry, and they are mother and daughter once more. Alais literally calls Eleanor by the French “Maman” for “Mom.” Henry interrupts this scene, partly because nothing could threaten him (or the patriarchy) more than the women in his life (or in 1960’s America) working together. Eleanor does not blame or hate Alais for becoming Henry’s mistress, but sees her as a victim of circumstance, though she does seem to have some bitterness for Henry over it. Hepburn is allowed to play all this very well, but Merrow has appeared particularly sensitive and vulnerable throughout the film so that when she becomes vulnerable in this moment with Eleanor, the change is hardly noticeable. Yuliya Vysotskaya was permitted by her director husband to show more of a range of character, and therefore gives a much more stirring portrayal of the princess, and creates a more touching moment between Alais and Eleanor.

The story is not entirely feminist, as it not only centers on Henry, but emphasizes that the two women remain divided, in spite of their affection for one another, because of their romantic love for him. When Alais confronts Eleanor after it appears that Eleanor helped save her sons not only from being locked up for life, but from punishment for almost murdering Henry, Alais says, “You always win, Maman,” and Eleanor replies “Except the prize,” most likely referring to a romantic relationship with Henry.

The ending has conflicting messages, emphasizing the theme of the battle of the sexes between Henry and Eleanor, but also emphasizing Henry’s and Eleanor’s love for each other. When Henry complains about the tragedies of his life, Eleanor calls him out on it by saying, “I could take defeats like yours and laugh. I’ve done it. If you’re broken, it’s because you’re brittle.” Indeed, Henry, their sons, and the patriarchal laws of Medieval Europe have made her life nearly unbearable. Henry shifts in this last scene from feeling sorry for himself to having profound sympathy for his wife. Henry claims that he has nothing, in spite of his political power, land, armies, wealth, and freedom, though what he most likely is referring to is others’ lack of love and sympathy for him. Eleanor, however, responds, “You don’t know what nothing is.” The final scene is absolutely brilliant in the 1968 film, showcasing the chemistry between and the talents of Peter O’Toole and Katharine Hepburn. Due to the lack of relief from the drama and darkness of the 2003 one, though, the bittersweet and almost uplifting ending comes out of nowhere, despite featuring the two talented actors, Sir Patrick Stewart and Glenn Close.

The story’s best feminist virtue is that it depicts Eleanor as a complicated and at times particularly sympathetic character, not as a vicious man-eating harpy undermining the glory of an otherwise perfect man. This could easily have been done, as the play is almost a sequel to Jean Anouilh’s 1959 play Becket, or The Honor of God. A film adaption was made in 1964, starring Peter O’Toole, who has said that he could never have played Henry in the 1968 The Lion In Winter if he hadn’t first played the same character in Becket. Anouilh’s Becket implies that Henry had strong homosexual love for his frenemy Thomas Becket (played by Richard Burton in the film), and that Eleanor (barely present in play or film) was an annoyance to Henry, and hardly worthy of being a rival to his manly love for his friend. Pamela Brown’s Eleanor is particularly one-leveled, and it is supposed to be amusing when Henry yells at her and puts her down. However, it seems neither the play nor the film of Becket could deny the historical character’s astuteness, as it is Eleanor who first openly speaks of Henry’s love for Becket, saying that he loves him “like a woman,” to which Henry flies into a rage. In The Lion In Winter, the subject of the late Becket is broached, and while Peter O’Toole’s Henry evidently still has love for him. This time, he has a complicated and fully fleshed out Eleanor in Katharine Hepburn’s portrayal with whom he can have a more nuanced conversation about the subject. When Eleanor falsely claims to have had an affair with Becket, O’Toole’s Henry lividly responds, “That’s a lie!” to which an amused Eleanor responds, “I know it. Jealousy looks silly on us, Henry.” The scene is incredibly different in the 2003 film, which not only lacks the cultural context of the 1960’s, but has no tie to the play or the 1964 film of Becket. Sir Patrick Stewart dismissively, almost as if he is bored, responds “That’s a lie,” undermining the incredible history and emotion that can be present in the scene, and giving little to which Glenn Close’s Eleanor can realistically respond with her next line.

While the consistency of the character of Henry through Becket and The Lion In Winter’s can be important for Henry’s character arch and motivations (and, arguably, also for his son Richard, who has a homosexual affair in The Lion In Winter), it’s a relief that the character of Eleanor was given so much more time and substance in Goldman’s story. Eleanor and Alais are not only queen and princess, but complex human beings fighting for self-autonomy as well as love. In this way, they are afforded the same care by Goldman as Anouilh gave in writing Thomas Becket and Henry. Goldman’s Eleanor is Henry’s mental equal and rival, and he loves her very much. However, it is implied that if she is ever “let out” by Henry (or if 1960’s middle and upper class women are ever permitted to leave the home to be equals in the workforce), that her ambitions will cause chaos and war (ignoring the fact that chaos and war had been occurring in Medieval Europe both with and without Eleanor and other women), and Henry will lose any and all of the power that he still possesses. Interestingly, it is also implied that Henry’s reign won’t continue for long, for better or for worse, hence the midlife crisis that he experiences.

Though this is implied in the dialogue, the stage directions of the play are explicit, stating that his physical health is “just before the start of the decline.” Hopefully, the fear that men reliant on the patriarchy (such as Henry) experience when women challenge their authority will diminish, and men and women will continue on the path to and reach equality, when no one oppress or have the other “locked up.”