Reeling Backward: The Private Life of Henry VIII (1933)

The (a)historical biography made Charles Laughton a star and cemented the popular image of the British monarch as a fat, brutish oaf.

Historical movies are often not very historical — biographies of famous figures in particular.

Not only do films often bend and twist the facts, they can even create new ones by implanting in the public’s mind a portrait of significant figure the known record does not support. “The Private Life of VIII,” which used the basis of the English monarch’s infamous six marriages as the framework for a comedic romp, is one of the worst — meaning best — at this.

By all accounts, King Henry VIII was a strapping man of great athletic prowess, at least in his prime. He was also fastidious in his personal hygiene and manners, rarely dining with others and keeping his personal thoughts largely to himself.

And yet, after Charles Laughton became an international star for his performance — including winning the Academy Award for Best Actor — the picture almost everyone has in their mind of the man who sat the British throne for 38 years is of a fat, brutish oaf who bedded women rampantly and ate even more voraciously, literally tossing the bones of his latest feast over his shoulder.

Indeed, it’s now not just the popular image of Henry but an archetype of kings in general — slovenly, selfish and randy. Think of King Robert Baratheon in “Game of Thrones.” You can’t go to a medieval fair without running into a half-dozen Henrys, making a loud spectacle of themselves strutting about while gnawing on a huge turkey leg.

(In fact, in the movie he favors roasted capons, or neutered roosters.)

It’s true that injury and illness sapped Henry’s vitality as he got older, resulting in tremendous weight gain. Scientists measuring his last suit of armor estimate he tipped scales (if they had them) at over 300 pounds. But for most of his life he was a keen sportsman, until a jousting injury left him with an ulcerous leg.

Laughton’s great and long career in front of, and occasionally behind, the camera is so cemented in the public consciousness as an older man that it’s hard to conceive of him as a youngster. But he was still in his early 30s when he played in “Henry,” a bit younger than the man he portrayed at the start of the story. The screenplay by Lajos Bíró and Arthur Wimperis takes him through the last dozen years or so of his life.

Interestingly, the movie is not the least bit concerned with Henry’s wars, his splitting with the Pope in Rome, his execution of Thomas Cromwell, starting the Church of England or other consequential history. Instead, it’s focused as the title implies on his marriages: six in all, the fate of his wives immortalized in the children’s rhyme, “Divorced, beheaded, died; divorced, beheaded, survived.”

The film immediately disposes of the first one, Catherine of Aragon, because as a woman of virtue she is dubbed uninteresting by the opening title card. This, despite the fact it was his longest marriage at 24 years.

We actually don’t get to see too much of wife #2, Anne Bolyn (Merle Oberon), either, because she’s about to be beheaded for adultery. In the film’s depiction, Henry is literally waiting for the firing of the gun to announce Anne’s death so he can speak his vows to #3, Jane Seymour.

In fact, the wedding took place some months later — the first of many historical inaccuracies. The movie even mixes up which European nations are fighting which in the political theater that is occasionally commented upon, but never seen.

Jane, sweet but simple-minded, dies giving birth to Henry’s son, Edward, who joined two sisters, Mary and Elizabeth, born to previous wives. (Another son, Henry, died in infancy.) In a rare historical feat, all three of Henry’s legitimate children would succeed him on the throne, with Elizabeth aka “The Virgin Queen,” the last, refusing to have children, thus ending the Tudor line.

(Perhaps she learned from her father’s marital travails, figuring no marriage is better than bad ones. Her 45-year reign was considered a golden age for England.)

Henry seems happy being single after Jane’s death, aka he is free to have trysts with various ladies-in-waiting and even servants. “He has chosen many for a day, or at most a week,” the courtiers observe. One shows ambition, Katherine Howard (Binnie Barnes), even going so far as to refuse the advances of Henry’s best friend, Thomas Culpeper (Robert Donat), in hopes of landing the big fish. She eventually will.

But first Henry is more or less forced into a political marriage with Anne of Cleves, played by Laughton’s real-life wife, Elsa Lanchester. The German princess is as uninterested in the pairing as he is, preferring the charms of a court poet, Thomas Peynell (John Loder).

She hatches a plan to make herself as unattractive as possible, pretending to be drunk at their initial meeting and practicing screwing up her face into odd expressions. In the end, they wager over cards — with Anne’s victories forcing Henry to send a page to the royal treasury for more gold crowns — and this turns into a negotiation for their divorce.

Both seem pleased with the final arrangement. “You're the nicest girl I ever married,” Henry compliments.

This provides an opening for Katherine Howard, who had won the king’s attention by singing one of his own songs at court. He prefers to just ravish her in her bedchamber, but is eventually won over to put a ring on it. This turns out to be his most genuinely happy marriage, until her dalliances with Culpeper lead to more visits to the axeman.

Now getting quite on into his advancing years — over 50, practically ancient for the 1500s — Henry confesses to being quite lonely. Observing a woman hectoring his children, he chooses Catherine Parr (Everley Gregg) to be his final wife. The final scene is of her shrilly scolding Henry for his eating habits and slothfulness.

After she leaves, Henry wakes from his pretend nap to scamper over to the table to load up on more capon. Turning directly to the camera, he announces, “Six wives, and the best one’s the worst!”

Although there are a few maudlin moments in the film, director Alexander Korda is clearly going for laughs the bulk of the time. Henry’s breaking of the fourth wall, directing his last line to the audience, must’ve seemed quite shocking in 1933. We’d seen silent films like Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton mug for the camera, but speaking directly to them was quite new and daring.

British film production at this time was still fairly modest, with 95 percent of film playing in the U.K. coming from Hollywood. From a technical standpoint “Henry” isn’t exactly a marvel, with very static camera movements and iris fades used for virtually every scene transition.

Korda occasionally gets a chance for some interesting compositions, and I noticed a common theme was using a triangular frame of some sort, such as an archway or transom window, through which to view the characters. The most notable is Henry, pacing lonely across a vast marble floor as Katherine Howard is executed.

It’s a marvelous performance by Laughton, full of wit and not a little self-mockery. He’s clearly trying to make a buffoon of Henry, but also show the humanity inside this spoiled figure. Imagine a life where everyone catered to your every whim, no one dared disagree with you and everybody was constantly telling you how awesome you are. I imagine I’d wind up with a pretty swelled head, too.

In terms of historical fidelity, “The Private Life of Henry VIII” is clearly not very successful. But it introduced the world to one of cinema’s great character actors, and firmly embedded in the public consciousness a picture of the monarchy that, fair or not, has endured.