Though Australia has a storied history of cinema (being, as we were, the first country to make a feature film), when it comes down to it there’s nothing we like more than a big, flashy telemovie – especially one about a treasured public figure.
So, what could be better living room popcorn fodder (aside from actual “original content”) than a Sunday evening in front of every glossy magazine reader’s favourite fairytale romance, that of “our” Mary Donaldson and Crown Prince Frederik of Denmark?
Recently we’ve been treated to the stories of Carlotta, Kerry Packer, Peter Allen and Gina Rinehart – with each telemovie offering little more insight than a Wikipedia entry – and will soon bear witness to the life and times of Ian “Molly” Meldrum and Peter Brock (though not, sadly, in the same blockbuster production). Original stories, it seems, are not in high demand of late.
But we’re nearing the end of the ratings season, so the froth count is high, and after a bummer year, Channel Ten may well be pinning its hopes on the power of love (or something like it) to turn their fortunes around, so Our Mary it is. And you know what? Damn it all to hell and put my “feminist critic” membership card through the shredder, because I watched the telecast of the real “Mary and Fred” wedding and I cried like a baby: their story is prime telemovie fodder. And it’s not feeding the princess industrial complex if it really happened.
In case there were any doubts as to whether or not team Mary: The Making of A Princess knew they were dealing with a very specific brand of camp, the telemovie quickly makes its intentions clear. It begins with a sweeping aerial shot of Mary (Emma Hamilton) going for her morning run accompanied by a swinging version of Dean Martin’s Ain’t That A Kick In The Head. All the single girl wants to do is get her steps up, but her path is dotted by pesky couples. “Whoops!” she squeaks, while swerving to avoid a pair of pashing lovebirds. The Sydney Olympics is on and the whole town is copping a root, except Mary.
This amusing opener sets the tone for a breezy affair, which begins with Mary’s fateful trip to the Slip Inn – as “wingman” to her housemate Andrew (Gig Clarke, always a delight) – during the Games. “I’m Mary from Tassie, who wants margaritas?” she says to a gaggle of international types who include “Fred from Denmark” (Ryan O’Kane). A few affable misunderstandings and a late-night skinny dip later, it’s on for young and old.
Before too long, our Mary must run the gauntlet of tabloid media (Leah Purcell enjoys herself as a revolting local paparazza) and the Danish royal family, which includes the icy Queen Margrethe II, played with palpable delight by Angela Punch McGregor. Planning their first social engagement, she asks Mary, “Do you like Lord Of The Rings?” before one-upping her future daughter-in-law with a haughty “I illustrated the Danish edition of books.”
Those with even the most passing knowledge of how things turned out between the daggy girl from Hobart and her prince from Copenhagen will find very little about Mary that will surprise, but director Jennifer Leacey (Wonderland) and writer Samantha Strauss (Dance Academy) keep things appealingly lighthearted.
Soundtracked by the sort of jazz that recalls the work of Nora Ephron and Rob Reiner, Mary might lack the wit of the greats but it’s one of the better romantic comedies Australia has made in some time (indeed, one of the only ones). The dialogue contains some real screamers (“I thought you liked me best in my trackies,” Mary tells her prince when she reveals her latest couture ensemble; he replies, “I like you best in nothing!”) but everyone escapes unscathed. This is very much, fun, silly, even momentarily tear-jerking film-making; the sort that until 2015 seemed to have been outlawed on Australian screens both big and small.
And while it may not be as obvious as the telemovies and miniseries set in the 1970s that we’ve thrilled to lately, the production and costume design is spot-on here, particularly during the Sydney sequences: from baguette handbags to Madison Avenue club bangers and iMacs squawking with dial-up internet, it’s one of the truer (read: enjoyably cringeworthy) depictions of the turn of this century.
The film-makers do take a few moments to explore the less savoury aspects of Mary’s fairytale romance – loss of identity, the vagaries of royal life, giving up her Australian citizenship, the ever-present paparazzi – but for the most part Mary is surrounded by friendly courtiers, including a hairdresser (“We are going to be best friends!”) and a stylist who are so conspicuously nice that if this were a Disney film they’d be Mary’s animal friends turned by magic into humans.
It falls then to Mary’s father John (James Lugton), a gruff Scotsman, to provide the voice of reason. “You’re my smart, talented daughter, and you’re turning yourself into a doll that smiles when it’s meant to!” he grumbles when his daughter brings her prince to Tassie.
Any scythe-like criticism viewers might have hoped Mary would provide on issues of monarchy, celebrity or paparazzi-led media evaporates fairly swiftly as the telemovie steams towards its inevitable white satin-clad finale – but it’s self-aware enough to admit as much.
Shortly before the wedding to end all weddings, Mary’s best friend Amber (a cracking Renae Small) asks a teary Andrew, “Are you crying? What happened to ‘the paternalistic capitalist construct [of marriage]?’”, recalling his speech in the shared house back in 2000. Eventually, staring at the swan who became an even more beautiful swan, he whimpers, “Mary makes it look good.”
And by the time the former Mary Donaldson exits the building to the tune of Handel’s Zadok The Priest, it’s hard not to agree, at least a little.
