By Lin Zainab
In a sea of velvet pantaloons, droopy crowns, and flirtatious garlic fumes, Carry On Henry (1971) does for Tudor fashion what jelly heels did for medieval armor—serve camp and chaos in equal measure.
Sid James as King Henry VIII struts through court with more wine than waistcoat. His cape? More polyester than prestige. The ruffs? Less regal, more ruffled by rain and regret. And the gowns worn by his garlic-loving French bride? Let’s just say she smelled of satire and chiffon.
But beneath the slapstick and saucy puns lies a glorious truth: fashion has always been a stage. In Carry On Henry, it’s not about historical accuracy—it’s about exaggeration. The collars are comical, the corsets occasionally collapse, and somehow a powdered wig ends up in a custard tart (don’t ask).
Still, I watched every frame with a grin—and couldn’t help wondering what my darling designer, Lady Dale Tryon, might have done with this canvas. I imagine her whispering, “That neckline needs structure, darling,” before sketching a gown fit for a real queen (who can still giggle at garlic jokes).
For the modern viewer, Carry On Henry is less historical drama, more high-stakes costume party. But if you’re a fashion lover with a sense of humour (and a soft spot for crinkled collars), it’s a ruffled romp worth an hour or two.
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