Starring Colin Firth, Helena Bonham Carter, and Geoffrey Rush. Rated PG. Opens Friday, December 10, at the Park Theatre

The title The King's Speech refers to both a particular bit of crucial oration—announcing Britain's involvement in the Second World War—and the central personal problem facing everyone who matters in this satisfying slice of historical theatricality.

Colin Firth, who might as well be clutching his Oscar throughout this film, is pitch-perfect as Bertie, better known as father of the eventual Queen Elizabeth and son of bad-tempered King George V (Michael Gambon), who fully expected his other boy to take the reins of empire. Guy Pearce plays that son, Edward, with just the right amount of sensitivity, doltishness, and sibling rivalry to convince as the fellow who gave up his hereditary job to be with the woman he loved—a divorced American (Eve Best) who gave him an excuse to not fight Hitler.

These circumstances, heightened by the advent of radio, meant that the perpetually cowed number-two son could no longer hide his debilitating stutter. Director Tom Hooper (The Damned United) and screenwriter David Seidler fudge the dates a bit, mainly to have the principals meet closer to the brink of catastrophe. Here, the gravest matters happen off-screen while we watch Bertie's wife (Helena Bonham Carter, also precisely nuanced as the Queen Mother) search for just the right speech therapist to help the future George VI find his voice, and his confidence.

What is most impressive about Firth's performance is that he never hides the prince's pampered self-regard nor his coagulating rage. So when the right man is found, we really cheer his ascension to competence. It helps that the fellow—a working-class Australian—is played by Geoffrey Rush, who skillfully doles out wisdom and warmth much needed by the King, and by The King's Speech. The handsome, trophy-attracting film is more playful than profound, but it does contain quietly measured insights into class, comportment, and one seriously screwed-up family.