John Brown wasn’t supposed to be funny. He was a grieving servant, a Highland ghillie, and a man obsessed with a dead Prince. But when John Madden cast a foul-mouthed, banjo-playing Glaswegian comedian in the role, the world shifted. Billy Connolly in Mrs. Brown didn't just change the trajectory of his own career; it fundamentally altered how we view the relationship between Queen Victoria and her most controversial companion.
He was brilliant.
Honestly, nobody saw it coming. Before 1997, Billy was the "Big Yin." He was the guy telling outrageous jokes about Jesus in Glasgow and wearing banana boots. He was a force of nature on a comedy stage, but a serious dramatic actor? People were skeptical. Then he stepped onto the screen opposite Dame Judi Dench, and the skepticism evaporated.
He didn't just play the part. He inhabited the skin of a man who was equal parts loyalist and rebel.
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The Casting Gamble That Paid Off
You’ve gotta understand the stakes here. Mrs. Brown was originally intended as a TV movie for the BBC. It wasn't some massive Hollywood blockbuster. But once the producers saw the chemistry between Dench and Connolly, they realized they had something far bigger on their hands. Harvey Weinstein—back when he was the kingmaker of Miramax—bought the rights and pushed it into theaters.
Why? Because of Billy.
He brought a raw, unrefined energy that acted as the perfect foil to Dench’s repressed, mourning monarch. Queen Victoria had spent years in isolation after Prince Albert died. She was a ghost. Then comes John Brown. He’s loud. He’s blunt. He treats the Queen of England like a person rather than a porcelain doll.
Connolly’s natural charisma was the engine. He didn't have to "act" being a Scotsman with an attitude; he was that guy. But he channeled that energy into something disciplined. You can see it in his eyes in the scenes where he's standing guard. There's a fierce, almost terrifying protectiveness there.
Breaking the Comedian Mold
It’s a trope now, right? The "sad clown" or the "comedian turned serious actor." We see it with Robin Williams or Jim Carrey. But in the mid-90s, for a British stand-up to make this leap was rare.
Billy was terrified. He’s admitted in interviews that he felt like an imposter. He kept waiting for someone to tap him on the shoulder and tell him to go back to the comedy clubs. But that fear added to the performance. John Brown was an outsider in the royal court. He was hated by the secretaries and the politicians. He was a "commoner" invading a space where he didn't belong.
Billy felt that. He used it.
The Chemistry of Disruption
The heart of Billy Connolly in Mrs. Brown is the friction.
There’s a specific scene on the coast where Brown tells the Queen she needs to get out more. He’s essentially barking orders at the most powerful woman on the planet. If any other actor did it, it might have felt scripted. With Billy, it felt like a genuine intervention.
He brought "The Gaze."
That’s what critics called it. The way he looked at Dench—not with romantic lust, though the film hints at a deep, spiritual love—but with a demand for her to return to the land of the living. It was revolutionary.
- He bypassed the stiff-upper-lip tradition of British period dramas.
- He used his physical presence—tall, broad-shouldered, and imposing—to dominate the frame.
- He spoke the dialogue with a rhythmic, Glaswegian cadence that made the 19th-century setting feel immediate.
The film works because you believe Victoria would fall for his charm. He was the only person who wasn't afraid of her. In a world of yes-men, he was a resounding "no." Or, more accurately, a "get up and get on with it."
Fact vs. Fiction: Did He Nail the Real John Brown?
Historians are a prickly bunch. They'll tell you that the real John Brown was perhaps more of a drunk than the movie portrays. They’ll point out that his influence over Victoria was seen as bordering on the supernatural by some members of the court, who nicknamed her "Mrs. Brown" as a slur.
Billy didn't play a caricature.
He researched the man. He knew Brown was a Teetotaler for much of his life, despite the rumors. He understood the Highland culture—the concept of the "clannish" loyalty that transcends class.
The real John Brown was a man of the outdoors. Connolly, who grew up in the shipyards of the Clyde but loved the Scottish wilderness, tapped into that ruggedness. When you see him walking the moors in the film, he looks like he belongs to the earth. The silk-stockinged politicians in the background look like aliens.
The Award Season Snub
Let’s talk about the Oscars.
Judi Dench got the nomination. She deserved it. But Billy? He was overlooked. He did pick up a BAFTA nomination for Best Actor in a Leading Role, and he won several critics' awards. But the lack of an Academy Award nomination remains one of those "what were they thinking?" moments in cinema history.
Maybe the Academy couldn't see past the beard. Or the jokes.
But if you watch the film today, his performance has aged better than almost any other period piece acting from that era. It’s subtle. It’s not "Oscar bait." It’s just human.
Impact on the "Big Yin's" Legacy
Before this film, Billy Connolly was a cult hero in the UK and a rising star in the US (thanks to Head of the Class). After this, he was a global prestige actor.
It led to everything else:
- The Last Samurai with Tom Cruise.
- Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events.
- The Hobbit.
- Brave.
Without the gravitas he showed in 1997, he might have stayed in the "wacky sidekick" lane. Instead, he proved he could carry a heavy, emotional narrative.
He also humanized the monarchy at a time when the British public was feeling particularly disconnected from the Royals (remember, 1997 was the year Princess Diana died). Mrs. Brown reminded people that beneath the crowns and the protocols, these were just lonely, grieving people looking for a connection.
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Why It Still Matters in 2026
We’re obsessed with "authenticity" now. Every actor talks about it. But Billy Connolly was authentic before it was a marketing buzzword.
He didn't use a dialect coach to "clean up" his accent for American ears. He leaned into it. He didn't try to look prettier or more "regal." He stayed rugged.
When you watch Billy Connolly in Mrs. Brown, you're seeing a masterclass in presence. It’s a reminder that great acting isn't about transformations or prosthetic noses. It's about being the most honest version of a character.
He also showed us that grief doesn't have a timeline. The movie spans years. You see Brown age. You see his frustration grow as he realizes that his devotion to the Queen is costing him his own life, his own health. He becomes a prisoner of his own loyalty.
It’s tragic.
Actionable Takeaways for Film Fans and Actors
If you're looking to study this performance or just appreciate it more, here's how to approach a re-watch:
Watch the silences. Connolly is a talker. His stand-up is 100 mph. In this movie, his most powerful moments are when he says absolutely nothing. Look at the scene where he stands outside the Queen’s door in the rain. That’s acting.
Contrast it with his stand-up. Go watch An Audience with Billy Connolly (1985) and then watch Mrs. Brown. It’s the same man, but the energy is inverted. It’s a lesson in "containment."
Observe the power dynamics. Notice how Connolly uses his height. He often stands slightly closer to the Queen than protocol allows. It’s a subtle "power move" that tells the audience everything they need to know about their relationship without a single line of dialogue.
Read the history. Grab a copy of Victoria & Brown by Tom Cullen. It gives you the gritty details the movie skips over. Knowing the real history makes Billy’s interpretation even more impressive because you see where he chose to be faithful and where he chose to be poetic.
Billy Connolly gave John Brown a soul. He took a footnote in Victorian history and turned him into a symbol of fierce, uncompromising friendship. It remains the crowning achievement of his acting career, and honestly, a high-water mark for 90s cinema.
If you haven't seen it in a decade, it's time to go back. It's better than you remember.
To truly appreciate the nuance, pay close attention to the final act of the film. Most viewers focus on the beginning of the relationship, but the way Connolly portrays Brown's physical decline—the stoop in his shoulders, the cough, the slowing of his gait—is where the real craft lies. It wasn't just a comedian playing a part; it was an artist capturing the end of an era. The legacy of this performance is found in every "unlikely" casting choice that has happened since. He proved that the person who makes us laugh is often the best person to make us feel the weight of the world.