The airport in Telluride, Colorado, is small and private. She seems to channel a lineage of countercultural American femininity: rockabilly girls and punkettes, Beat poets and skaters, Jordan Baker rather than Daisy Buchanan. Then everyone settled in to watch a film about confinement and despair set to a frequently menacing score of free jazz. Surrounded by quivering Christmas jellies and glistening puddings, the Princess is cut off from the world and oppressed by royal traditions; eventually, she is haunted by the ghost of Anne Boleyn. The score, by Jonny Greenwood, raises the tension to nearly unbearable levels. Early in the movie, Diana sits at dinner in the throes of an anxiety attack, dressed in a green gown the same color as the soup in front of her, and crunches into a string of pearls. The gems are a source of humiliation: Charles has bought the same present for his wife and for his mistress.
Le Prince Rupert. Duc de Baviere et Cumberland. From the portrait by Honthorst in the Louvre Paris. It is curious that in these days of historical research so little has been written about Rupert of the Rhine, a man whose personality was arresting, whose career was full of electrify adventure, and for whose biography an immense amount of material is accessible. His name is known to a good number people in connection with the English Civil War, many have met along with him in the pages of creative writing, some imagine him to have been the inventor of mezzotint engraving, after that a few know that he was Admiral of England under Charles II.