Spencer

The sheer volume of butter being wheeled into the Sandringham estate at the start of Spencer looks less like a grocery delivery and more like a munitions shipment for a war. In many ways, that’s exactly what it is. Pablo Larraín doesn't give us a polite historical drama; he gives us a three-day psychological siege where the primary weapons are pearls, pheasant shoots, and a very specific set of scales in the hallway.

I watched this on my laptop while wearing a pair of fuzzy socks with a hole in the big toe, and I couldn't help but feel that my raggedy comfort was a luxury Diana would have traded a crown for. That’s the trick of the film: it makes you claustrophobic in a house with a hundred rooms.

The Fable of the Fragile

If you’re coming to this expecting a beat-for-beat Wikipedia entry on the Princess of Wales, you’re in the wrong zip code. The film opens with a title card calling it "a fable from a true tragedy," and it leans hard into that surrealism. Kristen Stewart doesn't just play Diana; she inhabits a version of her that feels like a raw nerve wrapped in couture. I’ll admit, when the casting was first announced, I was skeptical. I thought the Twilight baggage might be too heavy, but she’s spectacular here. She captures that specific "hunted" look in the eyes—the tilt of the head that’s half-shyness and half-defiance.

Stewart’s performance is built on the realization that being a Princess is less about tiaras and more about being a sentient piece of furniture. She is constantly being dressed, weighed, and timed. There’s a scene involving a pearl necklace and a bowl of pea soup that is so stressful it genuinely made me want to swear off jewelry forever. It’s a bold, physical performance that anchors the film’s more abstract tendencies.

A Royal Slasher Movie

The genius of Pablo Larraín (who previously dissected Jackie Kennedy in Jackie) is that he shoots the Sandringham estate like the Overlook Hotel from The Shining. The hallways are long and cold, and the staff move with a terrifying, synchronized silence. Timothy Spall is menacingly good as Major Alistair Gregory, the man tasked with keeping Diana in line. He doesn't need to scream; he just looms.

Then there’s the score by Jonny Greenwood (of Radiohead fame, for the three people who didn't know). It’s a jagged, jazzy nightmare that sounds like a string quartet having a collective nervous breakdown. It clashes against the lush, 16mm cinematography by Claire Mathon—who shot the gorgeous Portrait of a Lady on Fire—creating a tension that never lets up. The film looks soft and grainy, like a faded photograph from a 1991 Vogue shoot, but it feels like a fever dream.

Why Diana, Why Now?

We are currently drowning in "Diana-core." Between The Crown and various documentaries, the cultural obsession with her hasn't waned in thirty years. However, Spencer feels like the most modern take because it ignores the politics and the "he-said-she-said" of the divorce in favor of an internal identity crisis. It’s a 2021 movie through and through—obsessed with the idea of "the true self" vs. the curated image.

The screenplay by Steven Knight (the mind behind Peaky Blinders) keeps the dialogue sparse and poetic, sometimes bordering on the theatrical. Some might find the metaphors a bit on the nose—yes, the pheasants are "beautiful but useless" and bred just to be shot—but in the context of this heightened, Gothic world, it works. Jack Farthing plays Prince Charles with a cold, distant irritability that makes you realize the British aristocracy is basically just a group of people who are professionally terrified of a drafty window.

The film isn't a "fun" watch in the traditional sense, but it is a mesmerizing one. It captures the absurdity of tradition—the literal weighing of guests to ensure they've "enjoyed" their Christmas meal—and turns it into a survival story. By the time the credits rolled to a surprisingly upbeat Mike + The Mechanics song, I felt like I’d just finished a marathon in high heels. It’s a singular, strange, and deeply empathetic piece of cinema that proves some stories are worth telling one more time, provided you’re willing to get a little weird with it.