If you can keep your head while two of your predecessors lost theirs…
History has never been particularly kind to Katherine Parr. As Henry VIII’s final wife, she’s often reduced to the role of a survivor, notable only for outlasting her monstrous husband. Firebrand, directed by Karim Aïnouz, seeks to correct that oversight, reframing her not as a passive figure but as a woman of intellect, political acumen, and quiet defiance. Yet in doing so, the film inadvertently underscores the great irony of Henry VIII’s reign: a man so obsessed with securing a male heir has come to be defined not by his own power, but by the women who endured and ultimately outshone him.
Alicia Vikander’s Katherine is poised and perceptive, a woman who understands that in Henry’s court, silence can be as dangerous as speech. She navigates the shifting allegiances and religious tensions with careful precision, aware that any misstep could be her last. But it’s Jude Law’s Henry who dominates the screen, an embittered tyrant rotting from the inside out, his once-mighty presence reduced to gluttonous cruelty. It’s a performance as grotesque as it is enthralling, a Henry who is both terrifying and pathetic, his paranoia growing as his body decays.
The film focuses on a particularly fraught period in Katherine’s life – her time as regent while Henry campaigns in France and her increasing alignment with religious reformists. With the king’s health failing and his paranoia deepening, the walls of the Tudor court close in, and she finds herself caught between her own progressive ideals and the ever-present threat of treason. The Seymours, the scheming nobles, and the ever-watchful religious authorities circle, each playing their own game in a court where survival is never guaranteed.
The production design captures the treacherous world of the Tudor court with oppressive grandeur, depicting it as both opulent and suffocating, its corridors echoing with whispers of conspiracy. Costumes and sets are richly detailed, evoking an era where power and decay went hand in hand. The cinematography leans into contrasts – the candlelit splendour of the royal chambers against the ever-present spectre of the executioner’s block – mirroring Katherine’s precarious existence.
Yet in repositioning Katherine as a proto-feminist figure, the film risks simplifying her complexities to fit a modern framework. She was undoubtedly a woman ahead of her time, but her survival was as much about strategic compliance as it was about resistance. There are moments where Firebrand feels as though it is imposing contemporary sensibilities rather than fully exploring the nuances of her position. The pacing also struggles at times, with some narrative threads left underdeveloped, softening what should be razor-sharp dramatic tension.
Still, Firebrand succeeds in doing something Henry VIII himself never would have countenanced: placing Katherine Parr at the centre of her own story. More than that, it inadvertently reminds us that Henry, despite his historical infamy, is no longer the true protagonist of his own legacy. His story has become the story of the women who survived him, outmanoeuvred him, and ultimately carried England forward without him. His quest for a male heir was, in the end, futile – his much-prized son was a footnote, while his daughters reshaped the nation in ways he could never have foreseen. Firebrand may take liberties with historical accuracy, but it captures something essential: the cost of survival, the weight of power, and the enduring irony of a king brought low not by war or politics, but by the very women he sought to dominate.
