All language subtitles for The Crown - 3x01 - Olding.WEB.NTG.en

Your Majesty.

Everyone at the Post Office
is delighted with the new profile, ma'am,

which they feel
to be an elegant reflection

of Her Majesty's transition
from young woman to...

Old bat?

...mother of four and settled sovereign.

Hmm.

The Postmaster General himself
commented that the two images,

the young and the slightly older Queen,

are almost identical.

Postmaster Bevins is very kind.

He's also a barefaced liar.

Just the tiniest changes, in the hair...

A great many changes.

But there we are.

Age is rarely kind to anyone.

Nothing one can do about it.

One just has to get on with it.

But, somehow, Harold Wilson
had to inspire the electorate

to thrust a wedge into the Tories,
to win the floating vote for Labour,

and stop the Liberals
stealing too much of the cake.

Sir Alec's position could likewise
be affected by the Liberals.

They've had quite a revival.

In the 1950 election,
the Labour majority crumbled.

Some of its great figures
were already ill.

The pressures of Korea
and rearmament were growing.

It's never easy to fight an election.

- Louder, please.
- Sir.

Your opponent's promises
often seem so much more enticing.

...so many unknowns.

Even the weather
can wash your hopes down the gutter.

At once Harold Wilson's life changed.

Oh, no!

What?

Winston's had another stroke.

- Oh, poor old thing.
- I'll go and see him today.

You do know, if that man wins today,
he'll want us out.

- Who?
- Wilson.

Half his cabinet would be made up
of rabid anti-monarchists.

They'd want our heads on spikes.

Vive la révolution.

Except I doubt they speak French in...

...Halifax or Huddersfield.

- The old order.
- Or wherever he's from.

The old boys' network, the cozy...

I even heard a rumor that he's a KGB spy.

Mr. Wilson? That's ridiculous.

That his predecessor, Hugh Gaitskell,
was poisoned by the Russians,

so that their man might take over.

- Who did you hear that from?
- A friend of mine at the lunch club.

He had a whole theory

about Wilson being turned
while on a trade mission to Russia.

Said he even had a KGB code name.

"Olding."

Well, if you know it,
and your chum knows it,

obviously MI5 will know it,

and they must have come to the conclusion
that Mr. Wilson was fine,

or they would have done
something about it.

Unless they never expected him
to get this far.

- ...the ruthless application...
- No one did.

...of scientific techniques
in Soviet industry...

can see clearly that only the state
should have this level of control.

Good morning, Your Royal Highness.

Sir, a reminder
that lunch is at one at the Mirabelle.

Tell her I'm not coming.

A Labour prime minister...

- Go on. Off you trot.
- Sir.

Good morning, Your Royal Highness.

Who are you?

I'm new.

I'm assuming "new" is not your name.

No.

- So, when I ask you...
- Violet, ma'am.

Where's the other one?

The... the fat one.

She left, ma'am.

Nervous exhaustion.

Hmm.

Yes?

Morning, ma'am.
Lord Snowdon sends his apologies.

- What?
- He's heading out to take photographs.

- What?
- Of election day.

- No!
- He will try and join you for coffee.

No!

Tony.

Open the door.

Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness.

Sir Anthony, what's all this?

Preparations
for the forthcoming exhibition

at the Guildhall Gallery, ma'am.

- Of our paintings?
- Portraiture in early modern Europe.

I believe you kindly agreed
to say a few words.

- Did I?
- That was a mistake.

Probably.

- Who's that by?
- Annibale Carracci.

Never heard of him.

This one?

- Artemisia Gentileschi.
- No, never heard of him, either.

Her, sir.

I'm afraid we're not great connoisseurs
of art in this family.

No, we're country people, really.

- Savages.
- I wouldn't say that.

But I just did say that.

Are you disagreeing with me?

I've always said, both the Queen
and Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother

have a very good eye.

What? Between them?

One each.

Right, darling.

I'm off.

Eyes left.

Good luck with Winston.

If I am to say a few words,

I wonder if you might give me
another of your wonderful tutorials.

With pleasure.

Your predecessor had
very little patience with me,

whereas you've always been kind enough
to make me feel, if not scholarly,

then not stupid, which I appreciate.

So, to that end, what would you say
constitutes early modern?

The end of the Middle Ages

to the beginning
of the Industrial Revolution.

Roughly late 15th century
to late 18th century.

And what era are we in now,
do you suppose?

The frighteningly modern?

I think that all depends on the result
of the general election today.

Oh, yes. Have you voted?
I know one shouldn't ask.

I have, ma'am.

- Conservative.
- Really?

I always had you down
as a man of the left.

Perhaps once. Not anymore.

- Who's this?
- Rembrandt.

An Old Man in Military Costume.

Wonderfully enigmatic character.

Speaking of enigmas,
what do we make of Mr. Wilson?

- One's heard the rumors, of course.
- Rumors, ma'am?

Yes, whilst on a trade mission to Moscow,
the KGB got to him.

Nonsense, I know.

I wouldn't dismiss them so quickly.

For a young socialist
to visit Russia in those days,

with an impressionable mind.

It's not unthinkable he might have been
turned to more... radical ideas.

But Mr. Wilson is an older man now,

and, I'm sure, a wiser one.

Harold Wilson's life
changed dramatically.

From being a prominent
opposition politician,

Harold Wilson became
the opposition politician.

The potential prime minister
and a servant of the Crown.

The Conservatives
can afford to lose...

Sir, the Queen.

...a small but workable majority.

- Dear Winston.
- Your Majesty.

Don't move.

How are you?

Gripped, ma'am.

It's a proper nail-biter.

...key battleground seats.
The Midlands...

- You think Mr. Wilson has a chance?
- I'm afraid I do.

I think we must face
the cold wind of socialism

blowing through this land once more.

I probably shouldn't tell you this.

When I was Prime Minister...

a young Mr. Wilson came to me

asking my permission to go to Russia.

On behalf of...

the...

Board of Trade.

Yes. Board of Trade.

One of the first Western politicians
to go behind the Iron Curtain.

I remember thinking then,
"We'd better keep an eye on that one."

...see a clear picture emerging
of who might be the likely winner.

I can't imagine what that would be like...

having a prime minister
one didn't trust...

when one thinks
what it was like with you...

I was a terrible bully.

You were my guardian angel.

The roof over my head.

The spine in my back.

The iron in my heart.

You were the compass
that steered and directed me.

Not just me, all of us.

Where would Great Britain be
without its...

greatest Briton?

God bless you, Winston.

After the generation
of Conservative rule,

in which we have seen recession,
scandal, national divide...

Go on, Margot. Do us one more song.

Yes, Margot. Your turn.

Another gain for Labour there.

We've seen a 3.5% swing
from the Conservatives so far tonight.

The haves and have-nots

and the fact that neither party
has been able to secure the confidence

of a large majority of voters

is symptomatic not only of fundamental
dissatisfaction with government,

but of the failure
of the entire political class.

Bravo!

Thank you.

...arriving into us now.

Yes, it's a Labour gain.

The Labour Party will form
the next government.

People will be waking up tomorrow
in a new Britain,

a Britain whose destiny
lies firmly in the hands of Mr. Wilson.

We now go over to Transport House,

where Labour staff and supporters
are gathered to hear their celebration.

Sir, the protocol is as follows.

When you're announced,
bow from the neck.

First time you see the Queen,
you say, "Your Majesty."

After that it's "ma'am."
Rhymes with "ham."

Until you leave,
then it's "Your Majesty" again.

Don't sit until Her Majesty does.
Don't talk until she does.

Absolutely no physical contact,
other than taking her hand,

if and only if she offers it.

No small talk unless she invites it.

At the end, she'll buzz,
and I'll come and get you.

Bow from the neck
and walk back towards me.

The Leader of the Opposition,
Your Majesty.

Mr. Wilson.

Thank you.

Your Majesty.

The country has spoken.
Your party has won the election.

[Elizabeth[ The duty befalls me,
as sovereign,

to ask you to form a government
in my name.

Congratulations, Prime Minister.

Uh, well, I suppose
I should kick things off with an apology.

- Whatever for?
- Well, winning.

I'm aware of your affection
for my predecessor

and doubtless you'd have preferred him
to have continued in office.

It is my duty not to have preferences.

Well, we all do though, don't we?
We can't help it. It's human nature.

And I can see the attraction
of someone like Posh Alec.

Someone you can chat with
about the racing,

someone well-bred, highborn,
who knows how to hold his cutlery,

as opposed to a ruffian like me.

Hardly.

Still, the country said otherwise.

They'd had enough of the mess
those Conservatives left us

and the havoc they wreaked.

Soaring land and house prices,

race riots, sex scandals,

large-scale unemployment,
rejection from the EEC,

and an annual trade deficit
of £800 million.

Yes, it's an unenviable legacy.

What will you do about the balance
of payments? Will you devalue?

No, m-ma'am.

A Labour government devalued the pound
once before, with little success,

and my party cannot risk being seen
as the party of devaluation.

It is also a matter of national pride.

This is still a great country,

and the pound is a powerful symbol.

Can't have been an easy one
to get used to.

What's that?

Well, you being part of that symbol.

Your face on every coin and banknote.

No.

I remember seeing my father's face
on a shilling for the first time

and thinking how odd it looked.

At the same time realizing

I would probably, one day,
have to look at my own face.

But one never knows
what destiny has in store for one.

Did you ever imagine
you'd be Prime Minister?

- Goodness, no.
- How could you have done?

- Mr. Gaitskell was still such a young man.
- He was.

No one could possibly
have foreseen his death.

No.

- So sudden.
- Yes.

And unexpected.

Yes.

Still, we make of our destiny what we can.

Indeed.

I'm not sure what I was expecting.

Each of his predecessors,

Churchill, Eden, Macmillan, even Alec,

each in their own way was formidable.

Statesmanlike.

But Wilson is neither old nor young,

tall nor short, loud nor quiet,

warm nor cold.

He seems to have come from nowhere
and is entirely unremarkable.

Best qualities in a spy.

What did you say?

Aren't those the best qualities in a spy?

Well, to be forgettable, unremarkable.

Not stand out in a crowd.

We used to say that about Henry,
didn't we, dear?

What?

That you would have made the perfect spy,

because no one could remember
having met you.

I-I-I'd say that was marginally better

than everyone having nightmares
having met you!

We do tease each other.

With Tony, one never knows
quite who one's going to get

from one moment to the next.

He's changeable.

He goes from loving to hating. Mummy!

- You're not listening.
- Hmm?

Of course I am, darling.

Tony doesn't hate you.

I think he may be starting to.

You must try not to let him
consume you like this.

The two of you
have your trip to America coming up.

Yes.

You'll be with each other round the clock,
working together as a team.

Your father and I always
found those trips very bonding.

Well, I hope you're right.

- Thank you.
- Sir.

- From Margot.
- Marvelous. Very good.

- How did you know?
- Margot!

Seventeen minutes, door to door.
I'm claiming that as a land-speed record.

Is there any food left,
or have you eaten it all? Your Majesty.

- Your Majesty. A thousand apologies.
- Hmm.

- Happy birthday, Henry!
- Tony, where were you?

Oh, look.

- Hello.
- Tony.

Tony, darling,
come and sit next to your wife.

Why would I do that?
I see her all the time.

Well, she was just saying
she sees you none of the time.

Hmm, because he's always working,
traveling, or waterskiing.

It's my new passion, ma'am.

Your Majesty,
there's a telephone call for you.

- Oh, it's lovely there.
- It's a ghastly little pond.

I think you'll find we own that pond.

I share a speedboat there
with Simon Sainsbury.

You have to wind it up.

Well, the general idea is to stay out.

That's really charming.
Elizabeth, thank you so much.

Really, really charming.

- Hurrah!
- That's enough.

Shh, shh, shh.

Winston is dead.

Fire!

Sir, the CIA'S Director
of Counterintelligence on the phone.

- I'll call him back.
- He called on Juliet, sir.

Heads of state from around
the world are arriving, crowding into...

Gentlemen.

...this great mother church
of the Commonwealth.

- Jim?
- Martin.

A man by the name of Michael Straight
surrendered himself to us at the DOJ.

I need to speak
to a senior intelligence officer.

He claims to be a sleeper agent
working for the Russians.

He says he has information
that will uncover a senior KGB mole

at the top of the British establishment.

- Where is he now?
- Washington.

We can have him flown in to you
by tomorrow.

We are assembled here
as representing the people of this land

to join in prayer on the occasion
of the burial of a great man,

who has rendered memorable service
to his country

and to the cause of freedom.

We shall think of him with thanksgiving

that he was raised up in our days

of desperate need

to be a leader and inspirer of the nation,

for his dauntless resolution
and untiring vigilance.

My name is Michael Straight.

And since all men are
subject to temptation and error,

we pray that we, together with him,

may be numbered among those
whose sins are forgiven...

and have a place
in the kingdom of heaven.

I attended Cambridge University,

and it was during this time
that I was first approached

by members of the Communist Party.

Right.

Right.

I'll confirm with Her Majesty
and come back to you straight away.

Director General of MI5,
Mr. Furnival Jones, Your Majesty.

Your Majesty. Thank you for seeing me.

It gives me no pleasure to tell you

that we have been approached
by a former Russian agent

who has identified a mole
at the top of the British establishment.

So, it's true.

- Ma'am?
- I'd heard the rumors.

Initially, I dismissed them,

but spending time with him personally,
in close proximity,

one had become more and more suspicious.

Indeed.

And that he should have been able
to carry on for so long, undetected,

is a subject of enormous embarrassment
to all of us.

This obviously needs
to be handled very delicately.

That's what I've come
to talk to you about,

to see if we might find a way
to contain it.

What? We can't do that.

Have a Russian spy in Downing Street?

Oh. Those rumors.
You're talking about Harold Wilson.

- Yes.
- I'm so sorry, ma'am.

Yes, it's widely accepted

that repeated attempts
were made by the KGB

to recruit Wilson when he was younger,
working on trade missions.

He traveled to Russia a great deal
in those years,

but the evidence for the Russians
having succeeded is so weak,

we discounted it some time ago.

And the poisoning of Gaitskell?

Gaitskell wasn't poisoned.
He died of lupus.

The fact is, even if the Russians
had poisoned Gaitskell,

the most likely beneficiary would have
been George Brown, not Harold Wilson.

Wilson was not favorite
to take over the leadership at the time.

We don't have a Russian spy
in Downing Street?

No.

But it seems...

we do have one in Buckingham Palace.

We look at a painting
and immediately want to know it.

Understand it.

But can anything ever be fully understood?

Take our bearded trickster here.

A Venetian cardsharp
originally ascribed to Titian,

until new evidence came to light,

proving the painting
is actually by Lorenzo Lotto.

As time passes, so we learn.

Truths are revealed.

In the late Renaissance,

painting after painting,
masterpiece after masterpiece

seemed full of hidden intentions,
multiple meanings.

Annibale Carracci's
Allegory of Truth and Time,

painted in 1584 or 1585.

This winged figure here

rescues a young woman, his daughter,

from the darkness.

He is time.

She is truth.

And this figure below,

trampled by truth, is deceit.

Carracci's message is clear.

Be patient. The truth will out.

I'm afraid I can now confirm
that the Surveyor of the Queen's Pictures,

Sir Anthony Blunt, was the fourth man
in the Cambridge spy ring.

The message encoded
in the painting is repeated in reality.

As with the Lotto,

time passed, and the painting was restored

to reveal deceit is two-faced.

She has a second, monstrous visage.

And that alongside conducting
a distinguished career as an art historian

and member of the royal household,

he spent 15 years as an active KGB mole

and passed almost 2,000 documents
of sensitive military secrets

to the Kremlin.

Truth may lie beneath the surface,
buried, forgotten,

but time has a way of uncovering it.

One thinks of The Merchant of Venice.

"Truth will come to light.

Murder cannot be hid long.

A man's son may...

but at the length, truth will out."

Thank you.

We had initially hoped
the information was false.

We get these sorts of claims all the time.
But...

we subsequently detained
and interviewed Blunt, and...

I'm sad to say he has confessed.

In full.

What's the next step?

Well, as a traitor to his country,

he should, of course, stand trial,
be put in prison,

and the key thrown away, quite frankly.

Unless it was felt
that exposure of Blunt's treachery

could cause even more damage.

What, than keeping it silent?

How?

It could have
a catastrophic effect

on the reputation
of our intelligence services.

The fact that he had gone undetected
for so long,

which could, in turn, seriously affect
our relationship with the Americans.

We're on our last reserves of goodwill
with them as it is.

One more operational failure,

and our credibility
would be completely shot.

What are they suggesting?

That we turn a blind eye
and allow a traitor,

an enemy of this country, to remain free,
with his career and reputation intact,

just to spare MI5's blushes?

- The man should be shot.
- I agree.

But instead, I have to get up
and pay tribute to him at this exhibition.

How am I supposed
to get through my speech?

I might choke on my words.

We stand here tonight,

surrounded by some of the Royal
Collection's greatest treasures,

to admire the genius of Rubens,
Titian, Rembrandt, and Holbein,

but that we are able
to make sense of it all,

appreciate it, understand it...

speaks to the genius of another man,

whose exceptional scholarship and vision
have brought us together today.

Sir Anthony Blunt.

Thank you.

It is he who has curated this exhibition,

and given meaning to mystery,

and revealed
what really does lie beneath the surface.

I, for one, had never thought
of art history in that way,

as the art of investigation,

solving riddles, finding clues,

unlocking secrets.

It's been quite an education.

I particularly enjoyed the portrait

which turned out to have another person
lurking beneath the surface.

Have I described that correctly,
Sir Anthony?

Or am I stumbling around in the dark,
as usual?

Not another person, ma'am.
The same person.

It was not uncommon
in the early modern period

for an artist to finish a portrait,

and the patron would take a look

and ask for a more flattering version
of themselves.

And the artist would paint
another version over it.

So, not two different people?

Two different versions of the same person.

Which might as well
be two different people.

The idealized version of themselves
they want to be seen,

and the less desirable person
they really are, hidden away.

There's even a word for it: "palimpsest."

That generally applies
to manuscripts, ma'am.

"Pentimento" for paintings.

Pentimento.

Well, I think I speak for everyone here

when I say none of us
will be able to trust

or look at anything
in the same way ever again.

Prime Minister.

Your Majesty.

I'm so glad you came.

It gives me the chance
to apologize in person.

- What for?
- There's no need to understand.

All you need to know is
that I misjudged you terribly,

and I'd like to take this opportunity
to say sorry.

Are you an art man?

- Art?
- Yes, art. Paintings.

Well, actually, no. No. Uh...

I'm an economist,
a statistician at heart.

I'm happiest with numbers.

You can trust numbers.

They're honest.

There's no mystery

or deception or allegory.

You know where you stand.

What you see is what you get.

And I prefer things that way.

I quite agree.

His Royal Highness
would like to see you, sir.

Excuse me a moment.

The very least you could do
is quietly crawl away,

not force us to live with you
under the same roof.

But doing the... the right thing,

the decent thing, the honorable thing...

you wouldn't have the faintest idea
what that was.

Well, I am going to be watching you,

and one wrong step, you treacherous snake,

and I will expose you
and have you thrown in jail.

I would think long and hard
before I did that, sir.

You would do well
to reflect on your own position.

What are you talking about?

You may remember,
at the height of the Profumo sex scandal,

there was talk of a member
of the royal family being involved.

No one knew who,

but it was rumored to be a senior member
of the royal family.

Very senior.

When the osteopath at the center
of the scandal, Stephen Ward,

took his own life...

there was speculation
that a number of portraits

of that senior member of the royal family
had been found in his apartment.

Naturally, a great many people were keen
to get their hands on those portraits.

Mercifully, someone respected
and well connected in the art world...

was able to make sure
they didn't fall into the wrong hands.

I never saw Stephen Ward in any capacity
other than as an osteopath.

If he made drawings of me,
he would have done so from photographs.

We all tell ourselves all sorts of things

to make sense of the past.

So much so that our fabrications,

if we tell them to ourselves often enough,

become the truth.

In our minds and everyone else's.

And believe you me,
I'm happy for your truth to be the truth.

It would be better for everyone.

Imagine how awful it would be,
for example,

if those pictures
saw the light of day now.

The storm it would create.

And for what?

It's the past.

- Would you excuse me?
- Of course, Your Majesty.