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The coronation of King Charles and Queen Camilla on Saturday had the texture of clotted cream: a delicious treat, if a bit rich and tasteless.
The ermine-trimmed red velvet robes, the five-pound crown, the gold robes on top of gold robes draped across gold carpets — the regalia often made it seem like a Versace fashion show staged in an assisted-living facility. The purples, reds and yellows looked dated and reminded us that last time was a Brit The coronation was televised, it took place in black and white.
Queen Camilla’s ensemble, a dress with light embroidery and an open skirt by Bruce Oldfield, was an elegant bright spot. But it’s difficult to take all this pageantry seriously, or to believe it has any purpose beyond entertainment. And when the character who was painted as a villain in the earlier seasons is crowned queen, you can see why a number of people feel the whole show skipped the shark.
British royal events often feel like this. Strangely anachronistic, laden with the specter of meaning – yet somehow feelings and emotions remain elusive. Usually the ostentation is punctuated by the presence of something snappy: Meghan with her TV-trained grin, or Diana with her oversized glamour, or Princess Beatrice’s comically baroque beige fascinator at William and Kate’s wedding in 2011. These people (or hats) humanize not the procedure per se, but give us permission to embrace the spectacle. Come on, they wink. Lean into the silliness.
Providing a rare moment of pathos, the Ascension Choir, a selection of gospel singers from England, belted out and swayed “Alleluia (O Clap Your Hands)”. You could almost see Meghan, whose 2018 wedding to Harry included gospel music, smile victoriously as the sun rose in Southern California. (Maybe she’s even in her pajamas on Oprah’s couch for a watch party?)
Prince William and Catherine, Princess of Wales stood behind King Charles III. and were waiting to enter Westminster Abbey for the coronation on May 6th. (Video: The Washington Post)
The only truly contemporary look was Kate’s. Now, Princess of Wales (and one day, Queen – we’ll do it all over again!), she wore a white Alexander McQueen gown beneath her blue and red robes. On her head she wore not a tiara encrusted with family jewels, but a floral crown crafted from silver bullion, crystal and silver thread by McQueen-branded British milliner Jess Collett. She wore more typical jewelry around her neck and ears, including a necklace made for Queen Elizabeth in 1950 and a pair of pearl and diamond earrings that once belonged to Princess Diana.
But the flower crown was a real statement. She reportedly chose it out of deference to wanting to keep the ceremony more low-key; no gems were embedded in its silver leaves. It’s the kind of headwear more typical of a wealthy bride evoking a royal vibe at the altar—someone who cosplays royalty rather than embracing them. It acknowledges the monarchy’s uneasiness in the 21st century, but also sidesteps the controversies surrounding badly acquired jewels like the Koh-i-Noor diamond.
The corolla is also the unofficial headpiece of Coachella, California’s desert music festival where influencers flock each year to perform a sort of vaporized vernal equinox. It may be that to the rest of the world, a leafy headpiece with a bit of sparkle might feel more important or relevant than a velvet headpiece filled with rubies and tourmalines and heavy. The flower crown is the royal regalia of the influencer, whose Instagram Grid existence is more exciting to most than life in a palace at this point. After all, Princess Kate is the closest thing the monarchy has to an influencer.
The flower crown may not carry the weight of the story, but it looks modern for better or for worse.