This weekend we saw the movie, “The King\u2019s Speech,” that has been nominated for a slew of Oscars. Enjoyed it very much. Although the history was prettified (the British administration\u2019s attitude toward Hitler was more ambivalent than shown), this did not detract from a moving story. I was only a toddler when King George VI made the famous war speech that climaxes the story, but I must have heard excerpts, the sound of the words was so familiar. My earliest memories are of the hush in our New Zealand home when the BBC news came on. First the stately chimes of Big Ben. Then the announcer\u2019s voice, orotund and crackly over the long-distance airwaves: \u201cThis is London calling. Here is the news, read by \u2026\u201d Pictures in the newspapers of King George and Queen Elizabeth inspecting bomb damage in London and comforting the survivors. They were our king and queen, and we loved them too.<\/p>\n
The story of \u201cThe King\u2019s Speech\u201d is of the future king\u2019s terrible stammer, and of his relationship with the Australian speech therapist Lionel Logue, a World War I veteran who stayed in England after that war ended to help soldiers whose powers of speech were traumatized by their experience.<\/p>\n
One scene hit me hard. Logue, an aspiring actor and Shakespeare enthusiast, is auditioning with a local dramatic society. Their snobbish rejection, based on his Australian accent, thrust me painfully back to the years I lived in England during the 1960s. The English class structure was rigid. My accent pigeonholed me as a colonial, a box from which I could not escape.<\/p>\n
Whether fictional or not, the king\u2019s loyalty to Logue the Australian, in the face of his advisors\u2019 disapproval of the fellow\u2019s humble origins and lack of proper credentials, endeared me further to His Majesty.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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