Philadelphia Weekly

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As clearly stated in English law, all British actresses who achieve a smidgeon of fame must put in hours on the most hallowed of British institutions: the period piece. Through a series of pleasingly mannered performances, Emily Blunt has managed to light up studio dreck ( The Devil Wears Prada ), indie dreck ( Sunshine Cleaning ) and an occasional film nearly worthy of her talents ( My Summer of Love ). What she’s so far avoided, for the most part, are major, showcase-y roles requiring bodices and ball gowns. But alas, now it’s reporting time for the terrific Blunt.

And so back in time she goes. But what’s left for her to do? Of Jane Austen’s classics, only Northanger Abbey remains, and Blunt already starred in a film called The Jane Austen Book Club . And Elizabeth I, she’s Cate Blanchett’s bag. But hey, there hasn’t been a prominent Victoria movie since Judi Dench scored an Oscar nom as the Queen for Mrs. Brown ! Betcha Victoria was plenty interesting before all that hot-clothes-in-warm-climates, puritanical-to-a-boring-fault Victorian-era business, right? Right?

Alas, not so much.

Scraping the bottom of the barrel for juicy royal melodrama, the British film industry (along with Sarah Ferguson) presents The Young Victoria, starring Blunt as the not-so-stuffy-after-all proto-feminist with a suspiciously modern way of delivering dialogue. And what exactly happened to the young Victoria? She married Prince Albert (Rupert Friend). She almost didn’t, thanks to some attempted thwarting on the part of hissable jerks. But she did. Nice for her. The end. Cue Oscar-grubbing Sinéad O’Connor song over the credits.

To its credit, the minds behind The Young Victoria try to make the minor skirmishes and growing pains interesting, but all they’re doing is building a mountain from a molehill. Much is made of Victoria’s ascent to the throne at an early age, with the young queen constantly battling advisors who discriminate against both her age and her gender. These naysayers on the wrong side of history prove easily felled, leaving the film with a dramatic hole that, in a fit of desperation, is filled at the end with Albert’s near-assassination. But not so fast, history scholars: The shot that hits Albert here totally missed him in real life.

The Young Victoria ’s ultimate trick winds up being more obvious: Just stack the film silly with talent and hope everyone’s sufficiently distracted.

The screenplay, often quite literate, is by Gosford Park ’s Julian Fellowes. The director isn’t a Masterpiece Theatre workhorse but Jean-Marc Vallée. He gives the thing a pulse without segueing into the overwrought, constantly-moving-camera camp of Shekhar Kapur’s ludicrous Elizabeth films; the editing, camerawork and montages are sprightly, bringing life to scenes in which nothing’s happening other than actors standing in place, reciting dense dialogue. In addition to Blunt, who turns in another witty performance while trying not to look too uncomfortable in those oversized frocks, the cast is stocked from beginning to end with Britain’s finest, from Mark Strong to Miranda Richardson to Paul Bettany and Jim Broadbent. The latter works what’s arguably his strangest accent yet, presumably as partial payment for lending his presence to the production.

But this is still the kind of movie where someone helpfully proclaims, “Even a palace can be a prison.” And try as it might to pump up the drama—swelling those strings and asking Blunt to raise her fist and exclaim she won’t be treated like a mere woman (all while being defined by her relationship with a man)—it fails. It’s simply that not enough happened to the young Victoria to require a movie. Remove the cast, writer and director and the film has no raison d’être beyond providing costume designers with something to research. Still, one ought not to let an Emily Blunt performance go unnoticed. ■