The show was always just handsome enough, just well-acted enough, just surprising enough in its historical arcana to keep you gliding onward to the next episode, and the next, until before you knew it, you'd reached the almost-present, the familiar figures of Charles and Diana, Dodi and Camilla, and it felt like poor form to give up.
In its earlier seasons, The Crown could be watched primarily as a period piece a portrait of the dissolution of the British Empire from the unique vantage point of its youthful sovereign, an introduction to aspects of 20th-century British history (the Aberfan disaster, the entire phenomenon of Princess Margaret) with which I was only glancingly familiar, a showcase for plummy accents and famous actors and Highlands hunting scenes.
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