This article was originally published in The Scotsman on 15 September 2012.
DOWNTON
ABBEY
Sunday,
STV, 9pm
PARADE'S
END
Friday,
BBC2, 9pm
STRICTLY
COME DANCING
Today,
BBC1, 6:30pm
Paul
Whitelaw
A
lavish harlequinade of withering gazes, arched eyebrows and stoic
suffering: yes, DOWNTON ABBEY is back, and thankfully it seems
to have calmed down following last year's hyperactive series, which
at times felt more like a series of disjointed trailers for an
upcoming episode interspersed with blaring commercial breaks every
five minutes. The latter are still an unwelcome intrusion, but it's
good to have it back on form.
In
case you'd forgotten where we were, the first few scenes are
helpfully devoted to nothing but clunky exposition, leading up to the
return of Lady Sybil and her fierce republican husband (cue awkward
discussions of “the Irish problem” over dinner), the much
publicised arrival of Shirley Maclaine as Lady Grantham's mother (cue
laboured bouts of American modernism vs English traditionalism), and
the wedding of Lady Mary and Matthew (cue the expected drama on the
eve of their nuptials). And most dramatically of all, Lord Grantham
is shocked to learn that he may run the risk of losing dear old
Downton altogether.
Despite
the fact that you can always hear the gears shifting in Julian
Fellowes' writing, I can't deny that, at his best, he's a fine
purveyor of world-class soap opera. It's corn on a grand scale, but
it's expertly tuned and entertaining corn at that.
The
cerebral yin to Downton's full-bosomed yang, PARADE'S END,
which concludes this week, is almost stubbornly anti-populist in its
appeal. Indeed, this handsome Edwardian period drama mirrors
precisely the compelling, frustrating, enigmatic allure of its
central character, Christopher Tietjans, who for the past five weeks
has made an esoteric virtue of keeping
his entire world at arm's length.
Immaculately
portrayed by Benedict Cumberbatch – his oval jaw set in stone,
although increasingly prone to wobbles as the story progressed –
Christopher's damned loyalty to his strict, self-flagellating moral
code takes a further battering in the final episode, which mostly
finds him mired in the insanity of the Western Front trenches.
Created
by Ford Madox Ford for a series of highly-regarded early 20th
century novels, “the last decent man in England” is certainly
more complex than any character found in Downton, and
highlights, not only the fundamental difference between the two
programmes, but also the inherent, possibly deliberate flaw of Tom
Stoppard's otherwise impressive adaptation: Downton Abbey wants
to loved, and will jab all your buttons to ensure that it is, whereas
Parade's End has no interest in giving you an easy,
comfortable, emotional ride.
And
that's why, although I enjoyed it, I never felt particularly moved by
this sprawling epic. I admired its stellar performances, its dry,
eccentric wit and Susanna White's assured direction, but I never
really got under the skin of the central love triangle between
Christopher, his entertainingly maddening wife Sylvia (Rebecca Hall,
a haughty swan, superb throughout) and moist-eyed, lovestruck plot
device Valentine (Adelaide Clemens, doing her best with an
underwritten role).
I
suspect that Stoppard was more interested in the material for its
reams of layered character study and socio-politcal satire, than as
an unconventional romantic drama. It's certainly obvious that Madox
Ford's novels, which many deemed unfilmable, don't lend themselves
easily to adaptation, and Stoppard should be commended for
transforming them into five hours of captivating, if at times
inscrutable, TV drama.
And
I'm glad that the BBC has taken a leaf from co-producers HBO's book
and produced something that demands concentration and actively repels
the casual viewer. It's encouraging that we have a landscape where
populist period fare such as Downton can comfortably coexist
with the relatively challenging and idiosyncratic likes of Parade's
End. And while it wasn't an unqualified success – the stasis of
Christopher and Sylvia's relationship, for instance, led to
repetitive reinstatements of their central dynamic every week – it
was undeniably smart, startling and ambitious. And we need more of
that, always.
Also,
special mention should go to Stephen Graham, who, despite being
lumbered with a ridiculous stick-on beard that made him look like a
Blackadder Dickens, pulled off a faultless Edinburgh accent
while proving himself yet again as one of TV's most versatile actors.
And speaking of Blackadder, the penultimate episode, with the
great Roger Allam coming to the fore to essentially portray a
blimpish General Melchett substitute, was one of the most effective
and darkly humorous “war is hell” statements I've seen on TV in
quite some time.
Finally,
STRICTLY COME DANCING returns tonight for another
ratings-grabbing series of flotsam and fluff.
Personally,
I've never been a fan. It's not something I object to – it's
utterly harmless – but it's just one of those cultural happenings
that unfolds every year in my peripheral vision, like football and
chart music and the latest globule of scandalous idiocy that
habitually dribbles from the mouth of some celebrity I couldn't care
less about. Not even the once-in-a-lifetime spectacle of Russell
Grant being fired from a cannon could rouse my interest last year,
which means that I'm either suffering from a clinical case of ennui,
or that the mere idea of the roly-poly astrologer hurtling through
the air in a shower of glitter is entertainment enough for me. Either
way, it's back, and there if you want it.
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