The final series so far has seen many a missin' consonant, and Jonathan Rhys Meyers going "Gnnnyaaahrr!"
"I'll have no spark o' scandal against her name," bellowed Henry VIII during last week's instalment of The Tudors, fists clenched and monarchical beard a' quiver. "Francis Dereham has spoiled the Queen for me. I will not be bowed. Never. Gnnnyaaahrr!"
With this, the die was cast. And, indeed, (some of) the cast were (about to) die. To wit: Dereham, Queen Katherine and Thomas Culpepper were sent to the chopping block, on the grounds of having done it, adulterously, in locations as disparate as Norfolk and, according to the prosecutor, "the stool closet."
A climactic montage followed, during which simpering flibbertigibbet Katherine and interchangeable Tudorhunks Dereham and Culpepper were gutted like hot trout, and Henry gambolled amid a flurry o' panting strumpets an' discarded consonants.
At exactly half way through the final series of the majestic period romp, we found ourselves consigning the last remaining crumbs of credibility to the same 16th century bum-bag that contains the embers of The Tudors' historical heft (the latter having blazed briefly during the first series, when we foolishly mistook it for a Proper Drama because Sam Neill was in it and he had a cape.)
It's rare to find a drama so bereft of self-awareness, and rarer still to find one that manages to make 360 degree ineptitude so roaringly entertaining. And as episode six approaches on its three-legged steed this weekend, it's clear the Irish/Canadian production has no intention of quietening down.
Jonathan Rhys Meyers (Henry O'Tudor) is still Irishing around the script like a bearded tank, gun cocked and aimed at the nuances o' the language, so it is. It's 1542 and Henry is now apparently 51, a fact telegraphed by the still smokingly svelte JRM going "gnnnyaaahrr" every time he stands up, and smushing his chin into his chest and flaring his nostrils in the manner of one experiencing trapped wind. It's hilarious.
Other stuff: the plot is still being conveyed through almighty cannon blasts of exposition ("Ambassador, I hear your country is at war with the Emperor?"). And as passive-aggressive bastard Henry Howard, David O'Hara continues to be the only one doing actual, demonstrable acting, the rest of the cast apparently having only turned up for the free chicken drumsticks.
Highlights thus far? Verily, my liege, we are spoil'd for choice. There was the bit in episode one where Katherine danced in the rain in her transparent nightie while a tumescent Henry spludged his beard lustfully against his bedroom window. There was the bit last week when reticent duffer Culpepper was first pelted with cabbages by rhubarbing yokels, then shoved around by a gurning heavy, and then, finally, decapitated. And there is the bit in this Saturday's episode in which the nine year-old Princess Elizabeth blurts, apropos sod all: "As God is my witness, I shall never marry!" and the music goes all mystical and sobby because, of course ? FACT KLAXON ? she never would.
And then there is, of course, the sex. And what sex. Thus far, we've had shouting fireside sex, backwards-among-rose-petals sex, deafening "stool closet" sex and deeply confusing sex during which there is clearly at least a yard separating the boffer and boffee's hoo-hahs. It's a farce. It's Carry on Up The Doublet. And as long it it continues to confuse pretentiousness with gravitas and bellowing with historical integrity, The Tudors will remain the most stupidly entertaining drama on TV.
So. Have you been enjoying the final series? Any favourite moments? Your thoughts below, if ye be so kind.
Source: http://www.guardian.co.uk/tv-and-radio/tvandradioblog/2011/feb/25/the-tudors-jonathan-rhys-meyers
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