The British are the kings of monarchical marketing. They managed to turn a funeral into a dramatic series that held the attention until the last chapter
“I want to die at a funeral like this,” my colleague Juan Diego told WhatsApp. Take of course. And I. What a show. The British are the kings of monarchical marketing. And the BBC, the one for weddings, baptisms and communions, should add an F for funerals to its name after the broadcast of Elizabeth II’s funeral award turned into the best miniseries of the year. They deserve to win all the Baftas and several Emmys, especially the protagonists: a consort of the King and Queen who were lovers during their previous marriages, a son who was deprived of his honor for unroyal behavior as a vassal, an heir to the throne for whom premature baldness will be the least of his troubles, a grandson who has renounced all his duties and no rights, an actress who wanted to turn her life into a movie, and a princess of Wales with so regal that, despite that she is an ordinary citizen, seems to have been born. And I’m sure our kings, emeritus and non-emeritus, will take home the award for Best Supporting Actor in a Dramatic Series. Because what a drink.
Today was the last chapter. And it didn’t disappoint at all: the characters, the soundtrack, the photography (those aerial shots of Westminster Abbey), the setting, the script; all destined so that some of the images left over for the future would be enjoyed in the present by an audience that has gathered in cinemas, parks and halls around screens large and small to watch the funeral. A British Super Bowl in which Beyoncé’s performance was not even missing. Because they have the real queen.
And now, to see who is the handsome who dies. Who is going to begin his journey into eternity in a coffin set up on an artillery armón (“armón” is the word we learned at this funeral, just as we learned “camarlengo” when Pope John Paul II died) moved by 142 sailors of the Royal Navy. Who has his own bagpiper to play at his funeral. Who gets their photo to replace the images of brand new flats in real estate windows? Who can wear a crown, command scepter and orb on his coffin? Who’s going to ring the bells of Big Ben? And who has so much capacity to assemble that all the crowned heads, all power, political and symbolic, are going to fire him. Of course it won’t be me. I’ll have enough when my baker comes by to say an Our Father.
Isabel II, like El Cid, continues to win battles after her death: not only has she cast her very long shadow on her son and his family, but also on the rest of the European royal houses. This morning the heads of protocol took careful note as the cold sweat ran down their backs. I wouldn’t like to be in her skin.
Source: La Verdad
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