Scenes from a marriage, 1870

So, Belgravia: The Next Chapter turned out to be... not quite what I hoped for. Firstly, it wasn't written by Julian Fellowes. I was surprised by how much I ended up minding this. After all, Fellowes isn't the kind of a-zinger-a-minute script writer where you actively think: "Wow, this is so good". That other costume drama supremo, Andrew Davies, farmed out the script-writing of Mr Selfridge and Sanditon to no ill effect; there's clearly plenty of talented telly writers out there. What Fellowes has, though, is a knack of making his characters interesting and/or likeable. That's a talent this series would have benefited from.

Another disappointment was that the series didn't follow the adventures of the offspring of the main couple from the first Belgravia series, Charles Pope/Bellasis and Lady Maria Grey, which would have made it a proper "next generation" sequel. Instead, the connection to the original Belgravia is rather tenuous. Frederick, aka Lord Trenchard, is the bastard child that side character Oliver Trenchard from the first series decided to acknowledge as his own. We see the grown-up Frederick meet and marry the romantically minded Clara. However, he's so troubled by his upbringing and his "father's" disdain that he has a hard time accepting Clara's love, and much marital strife ensues.

I was sorry that Oliver Trenchard, one of the few links to the original series, was portrayed in such a bad light. Accepting his unfaithful wife's child was part of his redemption arc in the first Belgravia, and it detracts from his characterisation there to see him turn against Frederick from the moment he surprisingly gets a son of his own. For all that, I did manage to get into Belgravia: The Next Chapter after a bumpy start. But for seven of its eight episodes, the supposed connection to the first Belgravia was a hindrance rather than a help.

The series is in fact a competently crafted and well-acted (especially from the secondary characters) marital drama with a couple of amusing side intrigues. Some problems remain, though, the major one being that the two protagonists just aren't very engaging. Now, don't get me wrong, it's quite convincing that a naïve, impulsive girl and an emotionally stunted man would experience these kinds of romantic problems in 1870s Belgravia (perhaps even in modern Belgravia). But there's only so much of Frederick sitting around looking miserable in a repressed way, or Clara confiding in a society doctor who clearly has the hots for her, that this viewer can take.

The other problem, as I've hinted, is the branding. From a series called Belgravia: The Next Chapter, it's not unreasonable to expect the same kind of comfort viewing as from its parent series. For most of its run time, though, this drama isn't particularly comforting. I started thinking that I would have liked it more if it hadn't had any connection to Belgravia  whatsoever, and if I'd known roughly what kind of story I could expect from the start.

But – and here's the rub – episode eight was really strong, and tied back to the events of Belgravia in a way I would have been sorry to miss. Finally, after seven episodes of distraught flailing, the characters managed to get their act together in a supremely satisfying way.  

Also, the secondary characters add spice to the story throughout. I wasn't always convinced by Elaine Cassidy's Katherine in The Paradise – though she could act up a storm all right, especially in the second series, she just wasn't the spoilt heiress type  – but she absolutely slays as the loyal lady in waiting Davison. Sophie Winkleman and Miles Jupp manage to wring every drop of pathos they can out of the ducal couple with an epileptic heir (I know this is the late 19th century, but sometimes the characters in this series seem to know less about epilepsy than Marco Polo). There's a fun French marquise who's obviously up to no good and spinning intrigues seemingly just for the heck of it. Clara's envious sister has a solid character arc, and Frederick's brother James is such a pretty parson in distress you wonder how any thug could have the heart to blackmail him, especially when there are more worthwhile things they could be doing.

So in the end I was quite torn about this drama. I do think it would have benefited either from being shorter, or from giving more time to the side plots. What is the shared history (clearly not of the romantic kind) of Davison and the gimlet-eyed servant Fletcher? Why does the marquise meddle in Frederick's and Clara's marriage, something she does not have to do to further her financial goals? I wouldn't have minded spending more time with these characters and less with silly Clara and stuffed shirt Frederick.

All in all, though, the ending was strong enough to cancel out many of my gripes, and it was nice to see John Bellasis getting just a bit of a redemption (though not too much). It's just too bad it had to be at the expense of Oliver's. 

How to fix Disney's Wish

So, Wish finally aired on Disney Plus, in the middle of the week and after the Easter Holidays, when I (and I suspect many others, not least families with kids) would have had more time to watch it. It's not the only puzzling choice Disney has made in connection with this film.

I had a bad conscience in advance. I knew I wouldn't be able to watch the film totally unbiased, after the film has been generally panned by critics and fans. Throughout, I would be asking myself: "what's wrong with it?". At the same time, it's a fairy-tale film with a front-and-centre villain: just what I've asked for from Disney. Wouldn't it be disloyal not to appreciate their efforts? As King Magnifico would say: ungrateful, much?

But no. I don't feel bad anymore. I think it's pretty obvious Disney dropped the ball with this one. As the film is all over the place, a review risks being all over the place as well. Instead, I'll come up with suggestions on what I would have changed about Wish to make it work better, for me at least. It's a smug perspective, but it'll have to do, and I'll better get started 'cause there's a lot to get through.

Lean into the "wish conflict" plot line Before I watched Wish, my guess on what went wrong with it was that Disney made the premise over-elaborate. This is an easy trap to fall into when you construct a fairy tale from scratch. Actually, though, the premise is not at all bad. 

The subjects of the kingdom Rosas have willingly given their dearest wish to their sorcerer-king Magnifico, either on their 18th birthday or when they arrive in the kingdom, in the hope that he may one day grant it. Meanwhile, the wish is stored as a luminescent orb in his tower, and the wisher forgets all about what it was. Now, Magnifico only grants wishes he doesn't consider to be a threat to him or the kingdom, which turns out to be not that many. Asha, the film's heroine, finds out just how restrained he is in his wish-granting during an interview for a job as his apprentice.

The trailers made it look like Asha's goal was to make all the wishes come true, but the film is actually cleverer than that. Instead, what she wants is for the wishes to be returned to the people that have given them, if they're not going to be granted anyway, so that the wishers have a chance of making them come true themselves. Magnifico testily points out that the people who come to Rosas and voluntarily give him their wishes have already given up on making them come true. They see him as their only hope, and if he doesn't grant their wish then at least they don't have to long for something that will never happen.

That's actually an interesting discussion to have. If you're convinced your wish will never come true, is it better to forget it altogether? I'd say no, but the point is worth arguing. Too bad Magnifico goes dark so fast the main difference of opinion between him and Asha is soon forgotten.

Show King Magnifico's back story I had high hopes for Magnifico, and though they're not quite realised he's still the best thing with Wish. Reviewers have been frustrated with him, however, pointing out that he switches from tragic to moustache-twirling villain at the flip of a coin. Is he motivated by his traumatic past or by narcissism? Which is it? Pick a lane!

In fact, I could see a way to connect the Leader of the pack and Beagle boy sides of Magnifico's nature. Instead of using the classic storybook opening to tell us of his back story, why not show it to us in flashbacks? Seeing what he's been through for ourselves would make it easier for us to understand Magnifico's frail ego. His vanity could be linked to insecurity, which in part could be explained by his past. Maybe he wasn't always considered handsome and loveable?

Make the Queen evil (but loyal to her husband) Whenever a creative decision had to be made about Wish, the powers that be seemed to have made the wrong one. Apparently, someone had the idea of making Magnifico and his wife an villainous power couple, but it was left by the wayside. Instead, the Queen is all against using dark magic and such, which means sooner or later, for plot reasons, she will have to turn against her own husband.

If there's one cliché I hate more than any other, it's the "Oh, you're a bad guy now? Then I don't love you anymore" one. Quite apart from everything else, that's not how the Force works. Love tends to trump moral judgement. In the case of Queen Amaya, Wish initially made a good job of pressuring her into a situation where she simply had to sell out hubby (something he wasn't that sad about). But come the finale, she was far too chipper about his gruesome fate. She once loved this man. She should be heartbroken.

How much better it would have been to make her his evil ally and another enemy for Asha and Co. to defeat. Then the hinted-at prequel-to-Snow White elements of the story at the end would have gained in significance.

Make the Star a boy – and a love interest to Asha Another idea that was scrapped along the way. When a troubled Asha wishes upon a star after her failed interview with Magnifico, an actual wishing star comes down from the sky to help her. But instead of the studio going with one suggested concept of the Star as a boy of Asha's own age (17), the Star in the film is a cute little side character whose actual magic powers are unclear. Asha is a pretty standard New Disney Heroine with her "oh look, she's clumsy and nervous, isn't that relatable?" ways. That approach is getting tired by now. A proper romance – for the first time in ages in an animated Disney film – would have made her stand out more as a heroine.

Get rid of the cutesie-wutesie bits The film first started to go off the rails with the song "You're A Star", a nauseatingly saccharine and inconsequential number featuring singing animals, trees and mushrooms. Another fiasco is a song performance by over-excited hens conducted by Asha's baby goat Valentino. I thought Valentino was charming in the first trailer, but it turns out that the trailer contained his one funny line. All the others are so aggressively unfunny it almost looks like sabotage, and he adds nothing to the story. If one cute sidekick has to be retained, an improvement would have been not to give Valentino the gift of speech until the finale. Then he could just make cute faces throughout the story and finally trot out his one funny line at the end.

Cut Asha's mother and develop her friends Legend has it that the dreaded Jeffrey Katzenberg had the writers of Disney's Aladdin cut the hero's mother from the script: "the mom's a zero". Say what you like about Katzenberg, he's savvy: Aladdin's mother was not missed.

I'm sorry to say Asha's mom is a bit of a zero too. To be frank I didn't care much about her old grandfather either, but at least he had a plot function to fill. Asha's mother does practically nothing. She could easily have been removed from the story. Or, one of Asha's band of seven friends, whose personalities (or lack thereof) are based on Snow White's seven dwarfs, could have been adjusted to fill the part. Dahlia (based on Doc) seems motherly enough.

The seven friends are severely underdeveloped as characters, and of course you could have cut them too, or at least some of them. But another route to take would have been to flesh out the characterisation a bit. It's a mystery to me that only one of them has given his wish to Magnifico. Surely, not all the others are under 18 years of age? Including Dahlia the castle cook? Also, it makes it laughably easy to predict which of them will betray Asha. 

It would be better if most of the friends had given away their wishes and it had some effect on their personality. At one time in the story, Magnifico destroys the wishes of three random townsfolk who have been vaguely uppity in order to make a magic staff. Wouldn't the impact have been much greater if the wishes had belonged to three of Asha's friends? Plus at the end, you could make a little gag of Gabo (Grumpy) staying cynical even after getting his wish back, because that's just how he is.

Make the film 2-D or rethink the watercolour aesthetic The backdrops in Wish, like Magnifico's castle, are truly stunning. But the watercolour-y softer lines on the characters' faces look downright strange at times; I had a hard time looking at Asha's old grandpa. If the film creators wanted to lean into a celebratory "old-fashioned" Disney look, they should have gone the whole way and made the film (at least appear) hand-drawn.

Skip the clunky Disney references Yes, yes, Disney celebrated its 100th year last year, we get it. I don't mind characters from other animated Disney films showing up in the end credits, in fact I enjoyed that. But the clumsy references throughout the film were just pointless. Keep the ones to Snow White, seeing as it was the first animated Disney film: the dwarf-inspired friends, the magic mirror (and in my version an evil queen too). Cut all the rest.        

Villain clichés I can't get enough of

Continuing the villain cliché theme of the last post, here are some villain clichés I won't get tired of in a hurry. This is not a complete list by any means. To be honest, I'm a sucker for villain clichés, starting with the typical villain look (pale, thin, icy eyes, sharp features). These clichés are just a few of my favourites I can name from the top of my head. If I were to write down every well-worn villain trope I enjoy the moment I think about it, I could easily get material for a follow-up post or two. But that might just be too much like hard work.

"You and I are not so different" I think Arthur Conan Doyle might be the one to take credit for the widespread popularity of the "mirror image" villain, who resembles the hero in all sorts of ways – except he's bad. Certainly, when I think of famous villains before Professor Moriarty, they tend to be contrasts to the hero. The hero is brave, the villain is cowardly. The hero is kind and generous, the villain is mean-spirited and bitter. The hero is good-looking in a reassuringly homespun way (too much conventional handsomeness can sometimes be a red flag), the villain sports the pale, thin etc. looks outlined above (which I consider fairest of them all, but which aren't generally appreciated) or is downright deformed. And so on. The same often applies to heroines and villainesses. The heroines are pure and unbelievably big-hearted, the villainesses are grasping sluts. Look no further than Dickens, or Shakespeare for that matter, for numerous examples.

But then we get Sherlock Holmes and Professor Moriarty, similar in so many ways that it's easy to think of "what-if" scenarios where they might have been friends, either both fighting for good or both becoming experts in villainy. No-one else is at the same level as them. They have a unique understanding for each other. We get a grasp of all this during the span of one single short story. The "mirror image" villain has been a staple of popular culture ever since.

What's more, the "they could have been friends" scenario has often developed to a scenario where the hero and villain actually were friends until things went pear-shaped. Doctor Who's Doctor and Master friendship/rivalry is only one of many highly enjoyable Holmes-Moriarty rip-offs. As I've found out while doing my X-Men homework, there's Xavier and Magneto (though Magneto's case is more complicated than simply "going bad"). Not to mention the countless times we have heard the villain in a Bond movie or similar say "you and I are not so different/more alike than you realise" and the hero respond hotly "we are nothing alike". I know it's a cliché by this time. But as it forces the hero to question his own smugness – after all, aren't the villain's weaknesses the same as his own? – to me, it never gets old.

The hero-villain team-up This is squarely a popular culture thing, seldom attempted in a more literary context, more's the pity. At least once or twice or three times in a long-running TV series, there's a plot line that goes like this. The hero and villain – or heroes and villains, it can be a question of teams joining forces – face a bigger threat; realise that they have to team up to defeat it, sometimes after a little too much pointless squabbling; are successful in their fight because of their different skill sets and then go their different ways again, generally because of some betrayal on the villain's part, but sometimes because both parties tacitly understand that the harmony can't last. 

I'm not too fond of the ultimate villain betrayal cliché, but otherwise I love a good hero-villain team-up. The villain can ensure success by making the hard decisions and, say, kill off an antagonist without the hero getting his or her hands dirty, while the hero can shine when a more understanding approach is needed. You could argue that too frequent team-ups with the good guys can weaken the threat level of the regular bad guy, but I'm not too bothered by that. I'm only sad it always has to end.

Let's twist again (within reason) I'm aware that I'm being a bit contradictory here. Like everyone else, I got sick of twist villains in (fairly) recent animated Disney films and demanded a front-and-centre villain in the good old Scar or Jafar mould. Consequently, it seems that I can get enough of twist-based clichés.

Let me try to explain. Twist villains, and sometimes twist heroes, have a part to play in stories that are otherwise very black and white. Complex characters are always to be preferred to flat ones, but failing complexity, a character with all the attributes of a good guy turning out to be bad or vice versa throws heroes off balance and gives them a reason to reassess their world view, always a desirable goal for a villain-lover. If not everything is at it seems, then there's at least potential for complexity. Plus, I admit, I enjoy a good rug pull now and again – it's a shame so few twists really deliver that. 

The reasons I objected to the Disney twist villains are that there are too many of them in a row, and that the "villain-coded" characters of old (you could see they were bad just by the animation) were so delicious. But there is a case to be made for the much-maligned Disney twist villains too. I may get back to that in a future post.

Villain clichés I'm sick to death of

The other week, during a walk, I came up with (well, when I say "came up" I mean nicked from Nostalgia Critic on YouTube) two possible blog topics which didn't seem all that demanding: the pop-cultural clichés I'm really tired of and, as a companion piece, the clichés I can't get enough of. Now that it's time to start on the first post, though, I'm wondering if the topic is as undemanding as all that. Maybe if I limit it to merely villain clichés? I can rant about the overused "peaceful village and grizzled veterans face and defeat a large hostile force" plot some other time.

Generic evil tyrant vs generic good rebels A bit of a cheat, this, as I'm as fed up with the good rebels as with the evil tyrant. The Swedes have a word meaning the "romance of revolution" which tends to be in play when rebels pop up in fiction (and not just popular fiction, either: looking at you, Victor Hugo).

But let's focus on the evil tyrant, and why I'm heartily sick of this villain cliché. There's a hint of political didacticism about the whole setup (now, children, you're never going to support tyranny, are you?), but for once, preachiness is not what bothers me the most. Ironically, I suspect that the reason so many fictional despots are dull is that the authors didn't want to get too political. The plot of a thousand and one fantasy and sci-fi adventures, where the hero falls in with a plucky band of rebels in order to fight against an oppressive regime and ends up saving the day, hinges on the audience whole-heartedly embracing the hero's cause. In which case, it's risky getting too specific about the nature of the regime's evils. One person's dystopia can sound pretty OK to someone else.

But we all hate oppression, right? No matter how your dream society would play out in real life, you want the opportunity to pick your poison. So the generic evil tyrant does a lot of harassing of the populace, to very little purpose. He – or she – has a purposefully vague agenda of getting and sticking to power, without any clear idea of what to do with it except be aggravatingly vile. I can hardly believe I'm saying this, but I almost wish that fantasy writers would risk getting just a little political at times when explaining the villain's motives. At least a pinch of misguided idealism would add some interest to the character.

Generic evil tyrants seldom have much of a private life, either; meaningful personal relationships are thin on the ground. They are more an idea to be fought against than a character in their own right. I'm not saying all fictional tyrants are wash-outs – I have a soft spot for Palpatine – but it's time to add some zest to the tired old fantasy formula. Why not reverse it once in a while? Good ruler vs evil rebels? You can argue the Harry Potter franchise comes close.

Human bigot vigilantes The Watchdogs in Agents of Shield. The Quarrymen in Gargoyles (yes, I spend more time watching cartoons than an adult strictly should, but hey, Puck is in this one!). Friends of Humanity in X-Men, The Animated Series (necessary Marvel preparation, I swear). Whenever bigoted vigilantes show up as occasional villains in a series, my heart sinks. Because they are just so boring. 

This type of villain group shows up exclusively in stories which want to tell us something about Fighting Prejudice, and I already have problems with many of these earnest parables. At least the mutants in X-Men and the Inhumans in Agents of Shield (mutants in all but name) are part of the human race, and are thus a better stand-in for various minorities than, say, bears or clones made of gloop or alien shrimp. But the people who are freaked out by them aren't given any reasons for their wrong-headed behaviour, which means that the good guys have no opportunity to come with intelligent counter-arguments. Instead, we get a number of variations on the "you are a monster" theme (from the bigots).   

You'd think that the whole point of using a parable would be to address sensitive themes a little more freely, but script writers clearly draw the line at giving bigots of any kind anything interesting to say. I'm left preferring even the most annoying supervillain (hello Apocalypse) as threat of the week to these unshaved dunderheads.

Faux Nazis Last seen in Rebel Moon, Part One on Netflix which contains many clichés that irritate me, as well as some I rather like. The troops of the generic tyrant are sporting uniforms in a style which one could label Evil Dictator Chic and which, like Moff Tarkin's riding breeches and General Hux's ranting in Star Wars, are clearly meant to make us think of Nazis.

Why would you want to saddle your baddies with such a parallel? Why not let them be villainous in their own way? If it's an attempt to make sure everyone understands just how evil they are, it's lazy shorthand and it doesn't work.

Grand Moff Tarkin blew up Alderaan. That's pretty horrible, and hard to excuse even someone with lovely cheekbones. But his crimes are firmly situated in a fictional galaxy far far away. Not ours.

So, this is urban fantasy... hm.

Neil Gaiman is an author I've always felt ought to be right up my alley. A writer revered by geeks, with a sense of humour, who's written for Doctor Who – what's not to like? What's more, I'm a fan of his Who contributions. That is, "The Doctor's Wife" is a great deal better than "Nightmare in Silver", which (I agree with everyone else here) got the Cybermen wrong. Nevertheless, the latter episode has highlights too, such as an atmospheric setting, a surprisingly loyal punishment platoon and the character Porridge, whose story of how a whole galaxy was blown up just to halt the Cybermen's invasion has stuck in my mind: all those lives lost, and the person he pities most is the poor blighter who had to push the button.

Maybe, though, my appreciation of the great Gaiman has been marred by the expectation that he should be right up my alley. When a TV series he's involved in doesn't hook me right away, I'm more disappointed than if the same script had been written by some random, unknown fantasy writer. Consequently, I make fewer allowances, and give up more easily, maybe a bit too easily. I haven't seen more than two episodes of Good Omens, though I'm continually telling myself I will watch the rest some day. As for The Sandman, I gave up after four episodes and will probably not watch the rest as, unlike Good Omens, it was Very Serious throughout (also, the Sandman himself is annoying). In both TV series, Gaiman mines Christian lore with an insouciance that makes me fidget – especially when things get brimstone-related – and (a related source of discomfort, this), he can go very dark at times.

My track record with Gaiman's books is better. I read and enjoyed his Norse Mythology (why "Norse" though, this Swede has to ask?), which actually taught me a lot, and me a Scandinavian. And now, lately, I've read Neverwhere, which is where the urban fantasy comes in. I did get properly into it, eventually. But it took a while.

Now, don't get me wrong. Getting through the first part of the novel was not a hardship. Gaiman is a very good writer, and as a reader you feel you're in safe hands. His sense of humour shines through, even when things are serious; thankfully, there's none of the dourness of The Sandman about Neverwhere. Nevertheless, through a large part of the book I felt more attracted to the idea of a secret realm hidden under the streets of London than Gaiman's description of it.

The hero of the novel, Richard Mayhew, has his world turned upside down when he helps an injured girl called Door (to all appearances a down-and-out) and misses an important dinner with his fiancée and her boss in the process. His fiancée dumps him, but that is the least of his problems. Suddenly, without knowing why, he loses his foothold on reality, and he realises he has to find Door again if he is to have any chance of getting his life back. With a bit of luck, he manages to make his way into London Below – where Door comes from –, locate her and join her and her small band of associates in a quest to find out who killed her family.

Sounds exciting, right? Especially as in London Below, many London landmarks and underground stations have a more literal meaning, which is fun not only for Londoners but for enthusiastic London tourists like me. There is, for instance, a real Earl's Court, and an order of Black Friars plays an important part in the proceedings. The problem for me is that London Below, though a place of adventure, is also decidedly down-at-heel. Its inhabitants may be familiar with strange and magical things, but square meals and nice clothes are in short supply.

In Gaiman's Introduction, he talks about two goals he had with Neverwhere. He wanted "to write a book that would do for adults what the books I had loved when younger, books like Alice in Wonderland, or the Narnia books, or The Wizard of Oz, did for me as a kid." But he also wanted to "talk about the people who fall through the cracks". Now, it's a bit tricky to pull off both these goals at once. There's a limit to how Narnia-like a magic realm that's also a metaphor for homelessness can get. 

For the first half of the book, I actually thought that Gaiman managed his worthy talking-about-the dispossessed-goal better than the getting-away-to-a-magic-land goal. The description of how Richard helplessly watches as his old life disintegrates, while nobody pays any attention to him, was a clever way of showing what slipping through the cracks might feel like. But as for the magic wardrobe feeling, classic fantasy realms like Wonderland and Narnia – though filled with their own problems and danger – are actually places you would like to visit (albeit perhaps not for long). They are also distinctly separate from the everyday. I couldn't help thinking of the Epic Rap Battle on YouTube between George R.R. Martin and J.R.R. Tolkien where the latter points out: "News flash: the genre's called fantasy. It's meant to be unrealistic, you myopic manatee!"

For all that, Gaiman's style is captivating, his characters are colourful and the world building is impressive; it's amazing it was all done for a single book (and a TV series, admittedly). I was sufficiently swept away by the story to savour the "what?! Nooo" moments, and by the end I wanted Richard to stay put with Door. Mind you, more because I shipped them than because I suddenly found London Below entrancing. If urban fantasy is always this gritty, I might be better off sticking to the fairy-tale-based kind, for the most part at least. Mind you, if there's ever a sequel to Neverwhere, I'll read it.

Finally, the final season of The Crown

It's shocking, I know, but I won't particularly miss The Crown. Even its best seasons (by common consent seasons one and two) didn't capture me as much as one could have expected, seeing that it's a historical drama stuffed to the gills with British quality actors. 

It's arguable whether the series has steadily declined, or whether it went through its roughest patch round about season four. I admit that the two last seasons have felt a little half-hearted, as if Peter Morgan was losing interest in the whole enterprise. On the other hand, I have personally appreciated the mellower tone towards the British Royal family compared to the disdain bordering on cold dislike shown during parts of the Olivia Colman seasons.

The gentle tone was the greatest positive for me in season six (that and the always stellar acting). It felt as if Morgan had decided, all of a sudden, that he had been too mean to everyone, and wanted to make amends. Imelda Staunton's Queen continues to be more likeable than Colman's, if perhaps a little dull. Princess Diana, who was depicted as a nervy and egocentric attention-seeker in season five, suddenly gains counsellor-like wisdom in her final episodes as she gives a sweet-natured Dodi good(ish) advice on how to stand up to his father. Morgan appears to have had a bit of a soft spot for Camilla throughout, and in season six he frankly ships her and Charles. Prince Philip, whose supposed failings as a father have played an important part during previous seasons, gets a chance to redeem himself by touchingly if implausibly brokering a peace between Charles and the bereaved William.

I also liked that the relationship between the Queen and Princess Margaret, which has been given a lot of screen time throughout the series, is permitted to end on a loving note. The episode where Margaret dies is actually the only one that made me tear up a bit. No more unnecessary recriminations over long-ago love affairs, thankfully. The season ends in a pretty dignified way, too, and the episode title "Sleep, Dearie, Sleep" brought a grin to the face of a Dearie (as in Rumple-loving Once Upon a Time fan) like myself. It's not supposed to, as it's named after a funeral dirge, but one takes one's pleasures where one can.

All in all, however, this season had considerable weaknesses. For one thing, it felt uncomfortably intrusive. For pity's sake, I don't have to be there during the whole last phone call between Princess Diana and her boys, or when their father tells them of her death (even if the sound was drowned out during the latter scene). I don't have to see Margaret's scalding of her feet during a stroke, or her painful rehabilitation efforts, in such detail. I don't have to stand vigil with the Queen at her mother's deathbed for what feels like real time. 

Oddly enough, this intrusiveness could be an effect of Morgan trying to show due respect for tragedies that actually happened. I caught myself thinking, in the first of two episodes dealing with the time just after Diana's death, "Why can't they just show 'six months later' or something?". In a wholly fictional drama like Downton Abbey, there probably would have been a "six months later", but Morgan may have wanted to give a real-life tragedy its due weight by dwelling on it a lot. It's not entirely successful; instead, it highlights the problems of "Downton-ising" real-life dramas from not so long ago at all.

For my part, I didn't mind the controversial "ghost" scenes where first Charles and then the Queen have a talk with the already-dead Diana, and the corresponding scene between Mohamed Al-Fayed and his dead son. To me, it was clear that there were no actual ghosts, and that the three characters were simply working through their grief and uncertainties by having an imaginary conversation – much as the Queen talks with her younger selves in "Sleep, Dearie, Sleep". To me, the sheer drawing-out of every event before and after the fatal car crash felt in more questionable taste.

Then there was the tedium of the two William episodes. Another thing I really don't need to see is Charles munching muesli while trying to make conversation with a glowering William. Man, that episode was boring. I had high hopes that the romance between William and Kate would add some well-needed fun, but even that managed to be dull, as it consisted mainly of William staring longingly after Kate.

But then, I've always had problem with The Crown's slow pace. I think it's because of all the silences. I'm not really one for a lot of action scenes; mostly, I sit through action films hoping for the car chases to end and the "talky bits" with zingy dialogue to begin. But there has to be talk. I can only take so many scenes of Royals staring silently into the middle distance. Just... do something. Say something.

This under-appreciation of dramatic pauses and silences has made me less appreciative of The Crown than I could have been and maybe should have been. Anyway, it's over now. What next for Peter Morgan, I wonder? I'm half hoping for Mohamed Al-Fayed, the Movie, naturally with Salim Daw in the leading role. He can even make dramatic silences work.

The Gilded Age season two: prediction follow-up

Just to be clear, the only reason I didn't include The Gilded Age season three in things to look forward to in 2024 is that I can't imagine it'll air that early. From what I know, the third season hasn't even been shot yet. When it comes, I will watch it avidly, as I still very much enjoy this series, even though I have notes.

But first of all it's time to follow up my predictions for season two. This could potentially be a short post as the large majority of my predictions were, simply put, incorrect. However, I'll try to use the opportunity to give some further reflections on this season, apart from the ones I've already mentioned in my mid-season report.

Mrs Chamberlain's son makes an appearance: NO. Honestly, where was Mrs Chamberlain this season? I was sure that Marian's kindness towards her in season one would stand her in good stead, and that Mrs Chamberlain would keep on playing a part as a useful Marian ally. But Mrs Chamberlain didn't make an appearance at all, even less her son. The only thing I got right here was that a "not obviously Mr Wrong" character was introduced, in order to delay the pairing up of Marian and Larry. It just wasn't Mr Chamberlain Jr.

Speaking of Marian and Larry, when they finally start taking a romantic interest in each other, it feels like it's coming out of the blue. One minute, Marian is firmly friend-zoning him, the next they are kissing, and publicly too. Well. At least it will finally lead to more entanglements between the Russell and the van Rhijn households.

Mr Russell does Marian a good turn: NOPE. I don't think they even spoke. As I touched on in the previous paragraph, my ongoing complaint about this series is that there's so little interaction between its protagonist families. The Russells are caught up in their dramas, the van Rhijns/Brookes in theirs. Mr Russell rebuffing Oscar's proposal to Gladys was one of the few instances where a storyline involved both families, and it didn't have any major effect on relations between the neighbours. Agnes, for instance, wasn't miffed that her son had been shown the door as the fortune hunter he was. But then, she is unaware of his intrigues half of the time.

Maybe season three will finally be the one where Marian "infiltrates" the Russell household? Or was the initial description of the series as plain wrong as most of my predictions?

An English Lord for Gladys? YES! Finally I got something right, as Bertha seems ready to pimp her unfortunate daughter to an English duke, forebodingly titled the Duke of Buckingham. Poor Gladys really has no luck. She was just getting interested in another young man, previously introduced to her by her mother as an acceptable match. On the other hand, there's nothing obviously wrong with Buckingham, other than that he's most likely skint.

The conflict between mother and daughter will be fun to see as Mr Russell, in a moment of weakness, promised to back his daughter up if she ever found a man she truly loved. By this time, I feel I need some exposition or flashbacks which explain George Russell's attachment to family values and devotion for his wife, which sometimes borders on weakness. He ends up apologising for being hit on by Bertha's former lady's maid, although he turned her advances down. Anyway, if he wants to keep his promise to his daughter, he'd better man up now.

Bertha Russell and Agnes van Rhijn team up: FORGET IT. I really thought that the main conflict of the series, or one of them at least, would be between Bertha and Agnes. But no. Bertha has too much on her plate antagonising Mrs Astor, and Agnes doesn't deign to show much interest, even of the hostile kind, for the nouveau riche Russells. And as, in this case, there has to be a feud before there can be a team-up, I'd say we're in for a long wait before these hard-as-steel broads join forces.

We learn more about Peggy's ex: NO. I'll have to rewatch season one, haven't I? Because it's still unclear to me what exactly happened to Peggy's ex. He seems to be dead, anyhow. With their poor little son killed off, it doesn't seem likely that Peggy's past will be brought up much in future. Though the man who adopted Peggy's son, and who lost his wife in the same disease as the one that took the boy, was really nice, wasn't he? Perhaps he'll find a reason to re-enter Peggy's life?

Battle of the butlers: YES (kind of). I'm counting this one as a win, although Bannister's attempt at retaliation against Church was swiftly regretted and nipped in the bud by Bannister himself. Hostilities now seem to be permanently suspended. Is this the beginning of a beautiful butler friendship? One can only hope.

For all my grumbling, I think I'd rank season two of The Gilded Age above season one. The pace picked up in the later episodes and the dramatic and emotional moments were nicely handled. Nevertheless, all the drama tends to end up in things staying more or less the way there are. I'm hoping that season three will risk more definite changes of the status quo.