All of these events and situations are matters of historical record and are convincingly and dramatically handled in the film. Doubly convincing, too, is Daniel Craig as John Ballard, the Jesuit Priest who takes it upon himself, as a sacred mission or Christian jihad, to rid the world of this thing of infamy, this Elizabeth, this Protestant whore who has usurped the throne of England and dared to reclaim England for Protestants.

By the end of the film we are convinced that here, indeed, is a valid recreation of how it must have been. And yet, after having said all of this in praise of the film, it must be also be said that there are several problems with the film, and these must be discussed. The film is of necessity an adumbration of the historical record—and this need not be damaging to the film or upset the history curmudgeons too greatly—if it is done skillfully and for a definite dramatic purpose.

To anyone with a minimal knowledge of Tudor history, it must have seemed odd to have Walsingham sleep with and then murder Mary of Guise early in Elizabeth's reign. Instead of a veritable portrait of Mary of Guise and her death, Mary is little more than an opportunist with a taste for lewd sex, who is sordidly murdered in her bed, an action equivalent to Diane Keyton's murder in Looking For Mr. Goodbar (1976). In addition, we have no connection made between Mary of Guise and Mary Queen of Scots (her daughter). Mary Queen of Scots was perhaps more dangerous to Elizabeth and her reign, if only because Mary represented the legitimate Catholic claim to the English thrown. In fact, Mary Queen of Scots was actually held captive for 18 years and eventually beheaded on Elizabeth's authority. Mary of Guise was not only the beloved mother of Mary Queen of Scots, she was the grandmother of James VI of Scotland who became James I of England.

But license does not imply wholesale disregard for the facts. As Kenneth S. Rothwell, writing in Cineast ("Film Reviews," 24.2-3 [1999]: 78-80) points out, that in Elizabeth, "the eventful period from 1558 to 1573 has been squeezed like an orange to fit the scenario rather than the scenario fitting the events" (78). Rothwell also states that "few of the audience will care about these historical inaccuracies." And in the larger scheme of things, perhaps this is true. But serious changes do affect the credibility of a film. If one important event has been lifted out of place and altered to enhance the color of the drama, might not other historical events also be irrevocably changed from their originals? If one such glaring example of high-handedness be seen by a causal viewing of the film, how many more examples might subsequent viewings betray?

Geoffrey Rush as Sir Francis Walsingham, Elizabeth's advisor (really her Head of Secret Service), plays a fine and villainous role as the true believer who watches over Elizabeth's reign with a firm hand and eye and a mind like Machiavelli's. But he is, of necessity, thrown into the shadows by the central role of Joseph Fiennes as Elizabeth's lover, Sir Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. (The film has no time, obviously, to develop that most consummate of Elizabeth's love affairs, that with Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex.)

Dudley, then, is the symbol of the physical love that Elizabeth could achieve and maintain, had she not been queen. And Fiennes plays his part well—he is convincing as the lover doomed by his limitations as Elizabeth is by her noble birth.

Ultimately, however, the film is Elizabeth's and the film delivers a believable and exciting interpretation of that metaphorical skeleton key to the age that brought forth the divine magic of Shakespeare, circumnavigation of the globe, the supremacy of the English navy, and the colonization of the New World.