The sublimely stupid but entertaining period romp is back for a fourth and final series. So will you be enjoying this historical liberty-taking drama?
Hark! 'Tis the peal of grateful remote-controls, for that most glorious of period romps has return'd to our screens. Sixteen months after it thundered off on a horse called Rampant Historical Misrepresentation, The Tudors is back for a fourth and final series. Let joy be unconfined.
Any fears that the Irish/Canadian production might sully its copybook with gravitas, restraint or historical integrity are dispelled within seconds of tomorrow's opening credits. It's 'August 1540', and Henry VIII (49), having had his unconsummated marriage to the tedious Anne of Cleves (25) annulled, is shacked up with Katherine Howard (17). By this point in history, of course, Henry would've been hobbling around Hampton Court Palace in his XXXL Cozy Sovereign™ doublet, scratching his codpiece as he bemoaned the state of his ulcer. But this is The Tudors, so he doesn't. Instead, here's Henry in a state of miraculously preserved hotness, sculptured muscles throbbing and sizzling monarchal cheekbones glistening with sweat as he paws ceaselessly at his giggling bride.
Ah, Katherine. Poor Katherine. In an effort to demonstrate her extreme youth and fanciability, the nymphette (played by Tamzin Merchant) spends episode one sploshing around in mud, writhing gormlessly on petal-strewn sheets and tee-hee-hee-ing with her moronic coterie. At one point she dances in the rain in a transparent nightie while Henry looks on, squashing his beard lustfully against the bedroom window and going 'Hehehmmnnyeaaaah.' She's an idiot.
Plot-wise, it's all go. Henry orders the execution of everyone in the Tower. Courtier Thomas Culpepper develops a bewildering preoccupation with Katherine ('Picture her naked. Those breasts. Those THIGHS …') There are rumbles of discontent in France. The air is thick with exposition ('That's the Earl of Surrey. It is said he writes poetry ...')
It's sublimely stupid and ridiculously entertaining. 'Prithee', you think, as you watch Henry and Katherine having shouting sitting-down sex behind a gossamer curtain. 'Don't ever let this degenerate into some sort of proper drama with facts and issues and stuff.'
Elsewhere, Jonathan Rhys Meyers' can't act/won't act routine continues apace, his 'tormented hunk' shtick locked in mortal combat with a script that requires little more than scowling, snarling and the occasional quip about the virility of the French, for the purpose of period lulz. Interestingly, Meyers appears to have given up pretending to be English. Once, when the Irishman barked orders from somewhere within his vast royal jerkin, his jaw muscles would twitch manically with the effort of keeping his vowels tied to their moorings. But now he is Henry O'Tudor – his accent spreading across the script like hot Cork butter on a stale scone. It adds an additional note of intrigue to lines like 'I feel like a new man. Sex? GREAT MEDICINE.'
All is, then, as it should be. Welcome back, ye buffoons.
So where do you stand on The Tudors? Does the blatant historical liberty-taking yank your ruff? Or are you looking forward to another 10 episodes of stupefying dialogue, hammer-blow exposition, transparent nighties and shouting sitting-down sex behind gossamer curtains? Your thoughts below, kind lieges.
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