"The Queen": Long live Helen Mirren

Look carefully at the regal close-up of Helen Mirren as Queen Elizabeth II, early in Stephen Frears' splendid drama "The Queen," and see something remarkable: She's meticulously drained all expression from her face, leaving it an elegant blank. Moments earlier, we saw her making conversation with a portrait painter, amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth, a spark of humor in her eyes. Then, in a flash, she's The Queen — a symbol, rather than a woman. In her pearls and sensible silk dresses, she meticulously performs her duties; everyone knows her, and nobody knows her.

"The Queen," a spellbinding depiction of the days following the 1997 death of Diana, Princess of Wales, has at its center surely the finest screen performance of the year. Mirren, aided by Frears' perfectly paced direction and Peter Morgan's intelligent screenplay, does the impossible: While barely cracking a smile, she makes us understand the woman behind the queen's expressionless facade, in a way that's unexpectedly moving.

In the days following Diana's death, the royal family remained sequestered at its country home, seemingly oblivious as a country mourned "the people's princess." "The Queen" takes us inside the royal compound, as the family watches television in their dressing gowns. They are shocked and saddened (though little love was lost, it's clear, between Diana and her in-laws), but they soldier on; the queen, indeed, is mystified at the news of public outpourings of grief.

Movie review

Showtimes and trailer

"The Queen," with Helen Mirren, Michael Sheen, James Cromwell, Helen McCrory, Alex Jennings, Roger Allam, Sylvia Syms. Directed by Stephen Frears, from a screenplay by Peter Morgan. 103 minutes. Rated PG-13 for brief strong language . Harvard Exit, Lincoln Square Cinemas. For interviews with Frears and Mirren, see today's Northwest Life section.

Tony Blair (Michael Sheen, spot-on), the young prime minister, tries to bridge the gap. (He's the queen's 10th PM; her first was Churchill.) When the queen announces a family-only funeral, he suggests delicately, "You don't think a private funeral would deny [the public] the chance ... " His voice trails off; she picks it up. "To what?" she asks, genuinely puzzled.

In another conversation, she speaks of restrained grief, of dignity, of sober private mourning. "That is what the world has admired us for," she tells Blair. But they don't speak the same language; not just a generation separates them. He ends the conversation, "Let's keep in touch." In a voice seemingly chipped off a block of ice, she replies, "Yes, let's."

Mirren never sentimentalizes Elizabeth; the actress (and the movie) is too smart for that. But there's something haunting in her never-wavering posture, and the paleness of her face with its red slash of lipstick, and the way she so often seems to be alone, even in a crowded room. And watch the careful details of her performance: the way she pulls her hand away quickly after Blair has given it a ceremonial kiss, as if she's tired of the ritual; the way she pauses, to steel herself, before picking up the telephone.

By the end, after the queen finally gives in to pressure and made a public statement praising Diana, she looks weary and spent. "I don't think I shall ever understand what happened this summer," she tells Blair later. "People want glamour and tears, the grand performance." Mirren, in a quietly grand performance of her own, takes us under the skin of a woman who long ago made her peace with her fate — a lifetime of service and following rules — and who, when the rules changed, suddenly had to write her own.

Moira Macdonald: 206-464-2725 or mmacdonald@seattletimes.com