To explain why this television series is a disappointment, it suffices to compare with historical reality the outline of events depicted in just the first few minutes. We begin with a brief depiction of the White Ship, with English King Henry I's only son and heir and his wife on board, going down in fictitious flames "off the coast of England". Actually, it struck a rock just off the coast of Normandy and the prince's wife was far away. The King is dismissive of the promise of his little daughter Maud (actually then a married adult living faraway in Germany) to provide him with heirs, while his unhistorically wicked nephew Stephen (whose real decency is well-known as his undoing) plots his own succession. We then flash forward to 1138 when Henry I (actually already dead for three years) celebrates the birth in Winchester of Maud's son Henry (actually born five years earlier in France) as his prospective heir. The old king then promptly drops dead of a poisoning that has no basis of suspicion in reality and his grieving daughter (actually then in France and at war with her father) narrowly escapes abroad.
Dramatic purpose may justify distortions of historical truth such as making the wrecking of the White Ship sabotage, but the other deviations from the most basic unfolding of events known to every English schoolchild brought up on a potted account of his country's history seem absurdly pointless. They are so relentless that I found myself cringing in expectation every time the action switched from fictitious characters to historical ones.
Could all have been well if the allusions to real people and events had been dispensed with? Sadly not, because the distortion of them is nothing besides the much more important misrepresentation of what twelfth-century society was about. The underlying story of the marriage of an earl's daughter to one stonemason and her love for another is itself intrinsically unhistorical, a fantasy about how 21st-century people would have liked 12th-century women to behave rather than how they ever did. Still, exceptions can always be imagined and this one could happily be swallowed on its own. Unfortunately, though, it is symptomatic of a pervasive malaise. The people of fictitious Kingsbridge unfailingly think and behave like 21st century people. Within a few minutes of the final episode, we are called upon both to accept that the monk Remigius is an unhappy victim of homophobia rather than the unscrupulous schemer hitherto presented, and that William's villainy has reached new heights through his bedding his 13-year-old bride, though anyone in the 12th century would have thought it strange if he had not.
It is the fact apparent from almost every review that most people are accepting it as a possibly (even if only vaguely) authentic depiction of the twelfth century that alienates me. In case this seems uncharitable, I would point out how extremely easy it would have been to have edited the most basic events and attitudes for truth without affecting anything that makes the story of fictitious cathedral builders and priests otherwise good. That this was not attempted is an indication of the script-writer's contempt for the truth and confidence in popular ignorance.
Why then does this travesty deserve five stars rather than the minimum one? It is never boring because it is often visually splendid, and is undoubtedly well acted by a broad range of great performers who have given it much more than it deserves. Do not think this implies it is good drama though, for the acting is severely undermined by a childishly melodramatic script. With the sole exception of Remigius, with his anachronistic second dimension, the characters are black and white and meet their deserved fates with tiresome predictability. The villains are purely and irrationally evil; the scene when William in a petulant rage murders his doting mother and throws her in a moat is simply too silly to be shocking.
Amusing enough for those indifferent to history, but seriously recommended only as a pantomime for children who have been warned it is fantasy.
Edmund Marlowe, author of Alexander's Choice, a novel, www.amazon.com/dp/1481222112
Dramatic purpose may justify distortions of historical truth such as making the wrecking of the White Ship sabotage, but the other deviations from the most basic unfolding of events known to every English schoolchild brought up on a potted account of his country's history seem absurdly pointless. They are so relentless that I found myself cringing in expectation every time the action switched from fictitious characters to historical ones.
Could all have been well if the allusions to real people and events had been dispensed with? Sadly not, because the distortion of them is nothing besides the much more important misrepresentation of what twelfth-century society was about. The underlying story of the marriage of an earl's daughter to one stonemason and her love for another is itself intrinsically unhistorical, a fantasy about how 21st-century people would have liked 12th-century women to behave rather than how they ever did. Still, exceptions can always be imagined and this one could happily be swallowed on its own. Unfortunately, though, it is symptomatic of a pervasive malaise. The people of fictitious Kingsbridge unfailingly think and behave like 21st century people. Within a few minutes of the final episode, we are called upon both to accept that the monk Remigius is an unhappy victim of homophobia rather than the unscrupulous schemer hitherto presented, and that William's villainy has reached new heights through his bedding his 13-year-old bride, though anyone in the 12th century would have thought it strange if he had not.
It is the fact apparent from almost every review that most people are accepting it as a possibly (even if only vaguely) authentic depiction of the twelfth century that alienates me. In case this seems uncharitable, I would point out how extremely easy it would have been to have edited the most basic events and attitudes for truth without affecting anything that makes the story of fictitious cathedral builders and priests otherwise good. That this was not attempted is an indication of the script-writer's contempt for the truth and confidence in popular ignorance.
Why then does this travesty deserve five stars rather than the minimum one? It is never boring because it is often visually splendid, and is undoubtedly well acted by a broad range of great performers who have given it much more than it deserves. Do not think this implies it is good drama though, for the acting is severely undermined by a childishly melodramatic script. With the sole exception of Remigius, with his anachronistic second dimension, the characters are black and white and meet their deserved fates with tiresome predictability. The villains are purely and irrationally evil; the scene when William in a petulant rage murders his doting mother and throws her in a moat is simply too silly to be shocking.
Amusing enough for those indifferent to history, but seriously recommended only as a pantomime for children who have been warned it is fantasy.
Edmund Marlowe, author of Alexander's Choice, a novel, www.amazon.com/dp/1481222112