History as we know it is only as authentic as the various historians would have us believe. Sometimes, non-historians get creative and try to rewrite the history books. The Other Boleyn Girl is an adaptation of one such fictitious take on the relationship between King Henry VIII (Eric Bana) and the Boleyn sisters.
Satiated with his mistress, Mary (Scarlett Johansson), Henry lusts for her sister, Anne (Natalie Portman), but is spurned. Anne does not wish to repeat her sister’s mistake of mothering a bastard and then being thrown aside for another woman. She will settle for nothing short of marriage and the crown on her head. To get under Anne’s gowns, thus, the king annuls his marriage to his aged wife, who has passed the age of producing a male heir.
I have never met this chap, Henry, but reading his character from the portrait paintings, it becomes apparent that Bana is a total miscast. The same applies for the famous sisters. Portman displays a variety of nice expressions, but honestly, her mannerisms on many occasions are far from befitting one with a noble upbringing. Johansson’s wide eyes and open, thick lips lend her an air of rawness, but it isn’t enough to keep the king within her skirts.
It may not be possible for us to ever know all the historical truths. For, much is buried forever. Still, it is difficult to believe that people will accidentally forget to jar the bedroom door when they are up to mischief, supposedly, under the utmost royal secrecy.
When queens and maids of honor educated in the elegant French court sob and bicker like ordinary vagabonds and espouse the superiority of the fairer sex, the filmmaker’s intention—that of creating a woman’s soap opera dressed in fancy costumes and set in a kingdom of opulence—becomes evident.
The crime, of course, is not in the enactment of such a drama, but in the falsification of significant characters and events of the past. Just about the only thing that does not stand out as an obvious fake are the grand sets and wardrobe, and the lighting, which has painted the era in a rich hue that finally turns to gold.
There ought to be a dictate passed against the distortion of history. Justin Chadwick’s romanticized version is phony and doesn’t at all improve upon the much acclaimed Anne of the Thousand Days, which the filmmaker has obviously watched, judging from the similar ending.
