Oh, blessed be the arrival of the unhinged Queen Elizabeth, a welcome breath of fresh air indeed! Minnie Driver's captivating portrayal of the formidable Elizabeth I adds yet another illustrious chapter to the annals of royal depictions, and it's nothing short of magnificent. My heart yearns for more of her regal grace and less of the tedious Guise-Bourbon feud, a squabble that has long lost its audience's interest. You all seem engaged in a petty, unamusing sniping match, devoid of any semblance of entertainment.
Catherine's noble aspiration to unite France hangs precariously in the balance, thanks to the unexpected survival of those François sought to incinerate. Now, the French Protestants have unleashed a tempest of chaos, storming sacred cathedrals, meting out justice to monks with their own hands, and pillaging the wealth of the Church. They've even hailed Sister Edith as a Protestant saint, a premature accolade, for sainthood doesn't come with a living certificate (not until she's departed this mortal realm, my dear!). Montmorency, with a plea in his heart, begs Sister Edith to relent from her crusade to dismantle the monarchy, armed with her peasant militia. Her steadfast response: she'll relent not a whit until justice is served upon the Duke of Guise, who nearly claimed her life in flames. Her resolve, admirable though it may be, carries a hint of imbalance, and when Aabis dares to contemplate rescuing her protégée from the Protestant fray, Edith warns of dire consequences, a chilling echo of cultish manipulation.
Her Protestant horde wreaks havoc on all fronts, even resorting to pelting Anjou with a dirt clod, a disrespectful act that speaks volumes. I chafe at the incessant use of "Anjou," a title reserved for him amidst a family where no others are similarly addressed, yet the convention persists. That dirt clod poses a grave threat, and Anjou's proposed remedy? Slaying a dozen random souls to instill fear, a barbaric solution befitting a paranoid despot in the making. Charles, ever the voice of reason, dismisses this archaic approach, while Anjou laments their lack of purpose or prowess, believing that if the peasants won't revere them, they must quake in fear. These words ring hollow, the melancholy cries of an insecure soul on the brink of tyranny.
Diane gracefully steps into the court, greeted warmly by Catherine's entire brood, a heartening sight indeed. She appears to have Anjou under her thumb, yet his composure slips, revealing a sinister psychotic edge once more when confronted with the common folk. Pull yourself together, Anjou! Meanwhile, your blonde companion with the chic bowl cut steals the show with their impeccable attire, leaving me eagerly anticipating future fashion statements.
In Italy, Rahima basks in the moment, her vibe resonating with Catherine, albeit unequally. Catherine yearns to flee, her memories of Florence's bleak childhood haunting her. Her mission: to secure a loan from the esteemed House of Strozzi for her palace construction. But before she can bolt back to France to quell her children's rivalries, fate throws a curveball—a man who ignites an instant spark, a welcome relief from the dour chemistry with Montmorency. Then, the twist: the Strozzis entrust the project to Alessandro de’ Medici, Catherine's half-brother. My heart sinks—a big, resounding NOOOOO echoes through my notes!
Yet, the drama defies historical timelines as Alessandro, whose death is supposedly etched in 1537, looms large. I dare to dream that perhaps he's the papal son in disguise, paving the way for a scandalous romance with Catherine, sans societal judgment. He extends an invitation to Catherine, revealing their father's abode, and her departure is momentarily postponed. Alessandro, adorned in resplendent, puffy pants, adds to the intrigue.
And then, Mary, Queen of Scots, re-enters the narrative, her long imprisonment in England a distant memory after an eleven-year leap. The stage is set for a fictional encounter between Elizabeth and Mary, who never met in real life. Elizabeth's entrance is nothing short of regal, her airy, whimsical demeanor a delightful contrast to her underlying steel. She's a blend of Lord Peter Wimsey's charm and the Scarlet Pimpernel's elegance, tinged with a fairy godmother's magic. Yet, when Mary protests her innocence, Elizabeth's sarcastic retort, "Oh, no, of course not. Except for those Protestants you had a hand in eliminating in France," coupled with a sly facial expression, is pure theatrical gold. The scene crackles with tension and wit, setting the stage for an unforgettable clash of queens.
Elizabeth, armed with a comprehensive understanding of Catherine de' Medici's intricacies, encounters Throckmorton outside Mary's cell. When he inquires about Mary's fate, Elizabeth's response drips with flippancy, "She's chosen her path. When the moment arrives, I shall sever her wretched head without hesitation." For those who've followed my Elizabethan recaps, you're well aware of my impatience with Mary, Queen of Scots – a figure of sheer folly. Yet, I find solace in the wit and proficiency of our monarch.
Having concluded her discourse with the Queen of Navarre, Elizabeth extends an invitation to one of the Bourbons, luring them to England's shores to negotiate the terms of a lucrative trade agreement. Her strategy? To ignite religious tensions in France, stoking Catherine's desperation and thereby securing England's upper hand in the negotiations. Yes, lives may be lost, but such is the nature of monarchy's game.
Now, turning to the episode's closing moments – did anyone, I beg, subject these scripts to the scrutiny of a queer sensitivity reader? My hunch is, alas, no. There was a heartening scene between Anjou and Diane, where she reminisced about accommodating his childhood desire to wear dresses, a testament to her acceptance. But within the same breath, we witnessed a chilling finale: Anjou and his companions stumbling upon a congregation of Protestants in the forest. One, brazenly accusing him of "sinful" deeds, offered to baptize him anew. Anjou, acquiescent, ventured into the waters with the man, only to strangle and drown him, a twisted reversal of sacred rites.
Three episodes in succession, queer characters have been portrayed as perpetrators of violence. Indeed, it's been every episode this season thus far! Can we not exercise prudence before lensing such scenes? One might argue that François's fiery purge of the church, in which miraculously no lives were lost, doesn't count. But the intent was clear – he meant to incinerate every soul within. This trend deeply troubles me!
