Elizabeth I in TV and film, from Bernhardt to Blanchett – in pictures
Shot in Paris in 1912, Les Amours d’Elisabeth, Reine
d’Angleterre or The Loves of Elizabeth, Queen of England was a short
four-reel French silent film based on the love affair between Elizabeth I of
England and the Earl of Essex.
Photograph: Everett Collection/Rex.
The Sea Hawk was a 1940 American Warner Bros. feature
film starring Errol Flynn as privateer defending his interests against the
Photograph: Moviestore Collection/Rex.
The Virgin Queen was a 1955 DeLuxe Color historical
swashbuckler in CinemaScope focusing on the relationship between Elizabeth and
Sir Walter Raleigh, and was the second time Davis played the English monarch;
the first was 1939’s The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex.
Photograph: Moviestore Collection/Rex.
Elizabeth R was a BBC TV drama serial of six 85-minute plays starring
Glenda Jackson. It was first broadcast on BBC2 from February to March 1971.
Photograph: Everett Collection/Rex.
Elizabeth I was portrayed hilariously as Queenie in the
1985 BBC comedy sitcom Blackadder Part II.
The Virgin Queen, from 2006, explored her whole life,
from days of fear as a potential victim of her sister’s terror; through her
great love affair with Robert Dudley into her years of triumph over the Armada,
and finally her old age and enigmatic relationship with the Earl of Essex.
The 1998 feature film Elizabeth is loosely based
on the early years of Elizabeth I’s reign.
Photograph: Sipa Press/Rex.
Elizabeth in the TV serial Elizabeth I, for Channel 4
and HBO, for which she received an Emmy Award in 2005.
Photograph: Channel 4.
The sequel to 1998’s Elizabeth, the 2007
feature Elizabeth: The Golden Age covered the later part of her reign.
Columbia Pictures’ 2011 Anonymous presents Lord Oxford
as the true author of William Shakespeare’s plays, and dramatizes events around
the succession to Queen Elizabeth I, and the Earl of Essex’s rebellion against
Photograph: Columbia Pictures.
The BBC has announced that Anita Dobson will play Queen
Elizabeth I in the dramatic reconstruction forArmada, a BBC2 documentary series
airing this spring.
Just came back from a real estate event where Prof. Andrew Baum from University of Oxford was presenting his new report about the future of PropTech. Apart from getting good tips from him, he also agreed to come to Cass Business School to talk about it 👻📚
Previous installment: As Thieves[A sweet scene with the Frasers on the first morning after they’ve all been reunited]
“I can feel your eyes boring straight into the back of my head,” she said with a laugh.
Jamie laughed too but looked quickly away, saying, “Your arse, more like.” He reached over by way of distraction to extricate the curl that Brianna had taken to chewing while waiting for her breakfast.
Actually, while his wife’s arse did look quite fine outlined by the lavender-colored dressing gown, it was the apparent ease with which she manipulated the kitchen machines that had kept him spellbound for the last quarter hour. The way she produced beans (sauce and all) from a large, metal cartridge; brought forth eggs, butter, milk, and sliced bacon from the yellow cooling cupboard that kept all fresh (indefinitely?) until needed. No fires to tend; no animals to slaughter or gather from; hot and cold water upon command; not to mention the sheer abundance of additional food visible both within the Frigidaire and the many cupboards. Even the furnishings: the fact that someone had taken pains to contrive a wee chair with a tray attached specifically for bairns at mealtimes somehow made his head spin.
As much as Jamie had already seen in 1950, and as achingly hungry as he was, he was absolutely staggered by it all. It was almost too much. The strangeness and newness of everything had been known to him ever since coming through the stones, of course; it wasn’t at all as if he hadn’t taken mind of them. But somehow, his mission —that absolute imperative to find Claire and the child—had put such things behind a gauzy curtain: visible, real, but not important enough to examine closely. Now, though…
Marvelous, it was, all of it, but….
Christ, as if he didn’t already feel enough of a simpleton in her world.
Claire smiled back over her shoulder, giving the pan on the Stove a stir before turning to set toast, berries, and sort of white custard (he thought Claire had called it Iogerd) in front of Brianna. “Well, it must be quite a sight to keep your attention so long. Enjoying the view?”
“Ye ken that I am.” He was, after all, and he took an appraising look in earnest this time as she turned back to the counter. “It’s rounded out quite a bit—that and your breasts—though the rest of ye hasna seemed to, I must say.”
She looked pleased by this. “A few of the lingering perks of pregnancy. Though, if you were to look more closely, you’d see other less desirablechanges in the mix, as well.”
“Well, be that as it may, your ‘mix’ will never not be desirable to me, mo ghraidh.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” she said, beaming. She walked over to the table and began sliding the contents of the pan onto his plate. “There’s plenty more of everything, so don’t be shy.”
He wasn’t, and had wolfed down a fair quantity of it by the time she turned again to ask what he might like to drink. He laboriously swallowed the mouthful of beans and fried bread. “Is there ale?”
She laughed. “Sorry, I’m afraid not. It isn’t customary to drink alcoholic beverages before 5:00 in the evening, anymore, except on special occasions. There’s coffee, though, or orange juice—”
“Both, if it isna too much trouble.”
Christ, he was hungry. He hadn’t filled his belly to his satisfaction since leaving Oxford, and he was presently finding the prospect of bursting preferable to that of stopping. As she set down his third helpings, though, he regained his senses enough to look up sharply and say, “You’ll sit down and have some yourself, now, Sassenach.”
She was clattering about with the pots and pans. “In just a moment, I promise.”
Jamie drank deeply of his second mug of strong, dark coffee, and caught his daughter looking intently at him from her wee chair. She had been happily shoveling breakfast into her mouth by hand and—haphazardly, evidenced by her wee, white beard—by spoon, with an enthusiasm that rivaled his own. She was still now, though, holding a single, battered square of toast about the size of his thumb. She considered it for a moment, then held it out toward him, tilting her head to one side. Oddly touched, Jamie leaned forward and took the gift with a smile and a slight bow. Brianna looked very pleased indeed when he popped it into his mouth. He placed a kiss in her sticky hair.
“Oh, GOOD LORD!” Claire suddenly shrieked.
He stood at once in alarm. “Are ye hurt?”
She whirled around and leaned back on the counter, face a mask of horror. “Are you in the country illegally?”
Interpreting his stunned moment of relief as incomprehension, she crossed to him, grabbing his arms and looking up, wide-eyed. “Jamie, if you don’t have proper papers, they could deport you at any time! But Britain won’t have record of you either and—Oh, Jesus H. Christ, this is not—ohMPHH!—”
He had stopped her mouth with a kiss, a good one. She fluttered against him for a moment as if to pull away, then stilled, and relaxed into the sweetness of the moment with him. Her lips were soft and full, and he loved feeling her tongue move gently against his.
Releasing her at last, he held her face and smiled. “Peu m’importent les problèmes, mon amour” [All the problems matter little, my love…].
She raised her eyebrows but returned the smile, finishing the lyric. “…puisque tu m’aimes” […since you love me]. “And since when do you know Edith Piaf?”
She shook her head and furrowed her brows sharply once again. “But, Jamie, we do have some fairly serious problems to contend with, from a legal standpoint.”
He kissed her again. “Wait just a moment, aye?”
His small bag of belongings was sitting by the back door, just where he’d left it. He spread the contents on the table and resumed his seat, gesturing to her. “James Fraser is a documented British citizen, thanks to Frank Randall.”
“Jesus, Frank…” she whispered, staring down at the passport and birth certificate.
Jamie adjusted his blanket kilt and reached up to wrap his arm around her waist.
She was shaking her head, disbelieving. “He would’ve had to pull a lot of strings to make this happen. He’s well-connected, but this is tenkinds of illegal, so it wouldn’t have…have….Oh, God.”
She sat down hard in the chair beside him, clutching the document detailing the Irrevocable Trust in Brianna’s name.
Jamie searched her face. “Ye didna ken, then? That he’d set aside a provision for her?”
She shook her head, looking blank. “He…might have told me about it, I suppose. He sent me letters….stopped opening them after a time.” She made a strangled sound and began to weep angrily. “Why the bloody hell did you have to go and do such a ridiculous thing, Frank?”
Jamie took up his coffee once more, allowing her a minute or two of privacy with her tears before saying softly, “He loves ye verra much, Claire.”
She wiped her eyes furiously and looked up. “Loves. Not loved?”
“Loves,” he said definitely. ‘He didna use that word precisely, but…aye. If he wished ye ill, he’d have let me rot in prison, I think.”
As succinctly as might be, Jamie recounted his interaction with Frank Randall, the ensuing altercation, and his stay and subsequent release from the Oxford prison.
She had a slight but wry smile on her face by the end of it. “I think you both needed that. To hit one another, I mean.”
“Think ye may be right,” he agreed with a laugh. “Wish I hadna hit him quite so hard, though.”
She gave a weak chuckle, then stiffened and looked off to the side. “Was he…what you imagined?”
Jamie considered that for a time. “As much as I was able to imagine, I suppose. He certainly had the look of the Randalls about him,” he shuddered. “If ye mean, did he live up to my expectations in himself, though….aye, he did. While we didna precisely get on…he’s a good, honorable man. I see why ye marrit him,” he said with a quiet smile. “And…” Christ, it hurt to admit it, but…“I think… he would have been a good father to the lass, had it come to it.”
“Yes…he would’ve.” She stiffened, the document crinkling under her hand on the tabletop. “Surely, we can’t accept this, Jamie. How could we possibly? After everything? After all I put him through?” She pushed the paper from her and scrubbed her face hard in her hands.
Jamie sat for a while, looking at Brianna. “I’ll stand by whatsoever ye decide on the matter….but I think ye must accept it.”
She looked up, not having expected this.
He looked back to the tabletop and smoothed the wrinkled paper. “It’ll be Brianna’s to do with as she pleases when she comes of age, aye? If, at that time, she wishes to use it or give it away, so be it, but it’ll be her choice, regardless. But Frank set aside the funds well after ye’d left him, Claire, after the lass had been born, even. If it had been done while he still thought he’d be the child’s father, that would be another matter entirely; but he kent full well what he was doing.” He laid his hand over hers, squeezing lightly. “I say let the man have this, at least: his honor for having done something for the wee lass. For you.”
She took a ragged breath and after a time, nodded. “I’ll write to him. To thank him. For all of it.”
She leaned into his shoulder, the pair of them just holding one another, breathing together. Something white caught Jamie’s eye on the floor over her shoulder, and he laughed. “I’m sorry I ruined your wee dress last night.”
“My…? Oh!” She sprang at once to her feet, throwing him back in his chair. “Must phone the hospital and tell them I’ll be out until further notice. Mrs. Byrd, too, must warn her about—oh, good gracious, if she had just walked in…!”
The hospital. Christ, of course…It couldn’t just be the three of them happy at home forever. She would have her work. The thought made him feel the same wave of panic that had its claws in him earlier: the overwhelming, irrefutable fact that he knew absolutely nothing…and that no fit husband or father would allow himself to be in such a despicable state.
He tried to speak confidently. “Ye dinna have to miss your work on my account, Sassenach.” He grabbed a napkin and quickly cleaned Bree’s face and hands before lifting her out of the chair into his arms. “The lass and I can keep each other company, if ye must report for—”
“No,” she said at once, looking up to meet his eye, the green TelePhone forgotten in her hand. “We need time together, Jamie. Nothing is as important as that.”
“We’ve got time in plenty,” he said diffidently, though his heart was rising with relief.
“I know, but—but it needs to be now. Eventually, this—this, having you here!—will become normal and we’ll just live quiet lives, but…I need as much time with you as I can, right now, and with our daughter.”
“I need that too, mo ghraidh,” he said, hoarse with emotion. He bent down with Brianna in his arms to kiss his wife’s cheek. A quiver of anxiousness made him add, “For me, it willna ever be normal, I think, but it’ll be us.”
She looked up sharply, and studied him intently, as if hearing his fear. “You’re going to be splendid, here,” she said, rubbing his arm, “and I haven’t the slightest doubt.”
“Down!” Brianna said loudly in his ear.
“S’kind of ye to say, Sassenach,” he said absently as he set Bree onto her feet. He watched as she began methodically to gather the array of white buttons that scattered the floor.
“Jamie, I mean it.” Claire set the TelePhone back on its hook and put her arms around his waist, hugging him tight and murmuring into his chest, “You’re going to be brilliant.”
He held her close and laid his head atop hers, praying she was right; thankful beyond measure that she was his…even if she were wrong.
Scandale [or, The Continuing Sexual Education of Ichabod Crane, Part the First]
It’s been six months now since the last demon, apocalyptic harbinger of the end times, shape-shifting monstrosity, or other Omen of Supreme Evil has appeared in their lives, and Abbie’s starting to finally think that maybe things have settled down for good (knock on wood, cross fingers, turn around three times and spit). With the two of them, her and Crane, having rented their own place in suburban Sleepy Hollow and trying to make an actual life together, it’s come with certain interesting ancillaries, such as how long she had to spend convincing him that it was all right for them to sleep together out of wedlock, and explaining TiVo (and subsequently finding it filled to the brim with History Channel documentaries which he likes to watch and loudly correct) and debating whether or not to invite him to Thanksgiving dinner. That’s what comes when you’re dating (although dating isn’t really enough of a word to cover what they are to each other, soul mates and witnesses, two halves of one person in different bodies) an out-of-time Revolutionary War veteran with a photographic memory and over two hundred years of life experience. It has its ups and downs. Mostly ups, though. In more ways than one.
Such as the up currently occurring, as he sidles into the kitchen with that butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth look as she’s making dinner and announces, “Miss Mills, did you know that there is a gentleman’s publication entitled Playboy that certain uncouth persons claim to read for the articles?”
Post-series one-shot. Abbie takes Ichabod to Oxford for Christmas. Also on FF.net and AO3.
From the moment they nearly missed the shuttle to JFK because Ichabod was arguing with a nearby nine-to-fiver in a suit about the unfairness of the present American legal system, and subsequently sat in traffic with his stare boring into the backs of their heads because of course he was on the same bus, Abbie began to lose her confidence that this would actually work out. This was shaping up to be just as complicated as any of their demon-fighting escapades (not least because Ichabod kept whipping his head around to stare suspiciously at innocent passersby, and it was freaking her out) even though it was supposed to be, for once in their ridiculous lives, fun. She had promised Ichabod that she would take him to Oxford for his Christmas present, and was now doing (or attempting to do) just that. But the prospect of loading Ichabod Crane aboard a transatlantic flight with carefully minted but obviously fake ID documents, while getting him to shut up and/or not say something unfortunate at the exact wrong moment, and not being met on arrival by MI6 or Interpol, was one to boggle even a professional.
Fortunately, Abbie supposed, she was nothing if not that. Getting Ichabod a passport in the first place had been hell and a half; she had to invent all sorts of stories about him being raised in a commune and having no official birth certificate or vital records, while he huffed disapprovingly in the background. Since he was so obviously British, she had thought about approaching the consulate in New York City, but then they would ask even more difficult questions, and with Ichabod being unable to provide proof whatsoever that he existed, they would justly get extremely suspicious. It was best to keep this in Sleepy Hollow, where she could exert at least some control over it, and with Irving’s help, they eventually decided that Ichabod was a naturalized U.S. citizen (he had been in the country since before its actual founding, and for several centuries) who had been born in Britain. (Abbie didn’t know if there were communes in Britain, especially in the starchly proper part of Wiltshire Ichabod originated from, and it made her head hurt, but never mind.) That way, they were able to acquire him an American passport, complete with a picture of Ichabod looking like a deer in the headlights, which was perfectly legal insofar as long as you ignored that everything in it was a lie. Nor did Abbie think that her “born with the hippies” cover story was going to fly very far if anyone started digging. Though Ichabod, with his ratty ponytail, predilection for vintage clothing and total disdain for modern life, could possibly pull it off.
242/365. A weekend trip to Oxford - the best present my mother could have given me for finishing the thesis. I loved this place. This scene took place one the first walk through the town. It’s not common in Germany for churches to have pianos. So when I saw this man on the piano in the middle of a beautiful church I just had to take out my camera. Everybody was watching and listening, while he was just playing and enjoying the acoustic of this beautiful place.