Much as the wholly understandable current cineaste lament centers on eager franchise chasing and pursuit of brand recognition that limits originality in the various major studio’s dwindling slates, it’s worth remembering the retreat to the tried and true is hardly a new endeavor. Over the years, Mary Stuart, the sixteenth century monarch of Scotland, has been played by Katharine Hepburn, Vanessa Redgrave, Samantha Morton, and, in a teen drama CW version, Adelaide Kane, who also menaced the Power Rangers. I think that makes it fair to expect that a new rendering of this particular swath of British history offers something unique. Mary Queen of Scots beckons audiences back to the damp, drafty castles when intrigue plays out, yet has very little new or interesting to say.

Officially adapted from a 2005 biography written by John Guy, the film purports to be a more accurate rendering of Mary (Saoirse Ronan) than has come before, especially in presenting her strength in dealing with the various challenges to her rule that accompanied he return to Scotland as a young widow. Focused attention is given to her fraught relationship with Elizabeth I (Margot Robbie), her cousin and Queen of England. Among other contentious points, Mary believes she has a claim on the kingdom’s throne that is at least the equal of Elizabeth’s. The screenplay by Beau Willimon (best known for presiding over the the U.S. version of House of Cards) builds much of its drama around the intricate machinations of power. It aspires to dizzying political chess, but mostly settles into plodding tedium. The nice details scattered throughout are overtaken by a sense of narrative futility bereft of deeper insight. The storytelling is shockingly inert.

Other individual elements of Mary Queen of Scots at least show some promise. The visual sense of Josie Rourke, a British theater director making her film debut, is strong and casually resplendent without lapsing into overt fussiness that can infest period pieces. And Robbie is very strong as Elizabeth, tapping into brittleness borne of the ruler’s insecurities, essentially providing another version of the poisonous privilege found in Olivia Colman’s turn in the far superior The Favourite. None of this is enough to transcend the flaws built into the work, typed onto the page and stubbornly unfixed, maybe unfixable. Mary Queen of Scots fails on the most fundamental level: establishing a compelling reason for being.