A royal feast... now just watch me binge! Faultless is the only word for The Crown with its exquisite writing and magnificent acting
The Crown Available now, Netflix
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The Moonstone Monday-Friday, BBC1
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The Binge Viewer is not a couch potato. Forget the image of the sloth getting fatter on the sofa, the BV is an altogether more glamorous concept: a highly motivated, enthusiastic viewer who doesn’t just love and watch TV but needs to share his/her views with others who have enjoyed the same experience.
Where the couch potato was a loner, the BV is out to show just how much they are capable of consuming without tiring, and to out-rival all viewer competitors in that consumption. The BV is a greedy creature and can chew TV up and spit it out at an alarming rate.
Binge viewing is the new black. Although, according to reports, 90 per cent of people still watch TV in real time, increasing numbers are taking advantage of entire series being made available in one great feast, and gorging themselves over hours, days and even weeks.
Netflix's The Crown begins with Princess Elizabeth’s (Claire Foy, above) romance and subsequent wedding to Prince Philip (Matt Smith) in 1947, and no expense has been spared
Netflix is a game-changer that put itself at the forefront of the game with House Of Cards starring Kevin Spacey and, among much else, it has brought us The Crown. I have just one word for it. Faultless.
Written by Peter Morgan and directed by Stephen Daldry, it begins with Princess Elizabeth’s romance and subsequent wedding to Prince Philip in 1947, and no expense has been spared.
Its brilliance lies in its not being a drama of the ‘royal’ or Upstairs Downstairs genre (thank heavens, it has none of the cringe-worthy clichés of Downton Abbey).
Character-driven, it’s a slice of history that speaks to us as human beings in any age. Morgan’s writing is exquisite: never ‘on the nose’, it is an actor’s dream and the performances by Claire Foy (Elizabeth) and Matt Smith (Prince Philip) capture both the subtleties in Morgan’s writing and Daldry’s direction.
And then there’s John Lithgow. Wow. Just WOW! The American actor delivers a Winston Churchill of such magnitude, magnificence and total credibility, one can only gasp with the genius of a man who never puts a foot wrong in any role.
Every facial expression speaks volumes; every sentence is an actor’s masterclass in timing and humour. I cannot remember the last time I have ever seen an actor so completely inhabit a role; in fact, I don’t think I ever have.
Lithgow delivers and delivers and delivers. In episode two, I swear I did not breathe during the speech to the nation announcing the King’s death. It is as perfect a scene of television as you will ever see.
And so to The Moonstone. Please. Wake me up. Finally, nearly five years after the BBC announced it had commissioned an adaptation of Wilkie Collins’s Victorian novel, the drama made it to the screen – in daytime.
There is no shame in being on daytime TV – it’s a very tough nut to crack – but in its belief back in 2012 that it was creating something on the back of the success of Sherlock (its words, not mine), it’s clear the BBC intended The Moonstone for prime time.
Attempting to get to the bottom of what allegedly went wrong ‘creatively’ is a greater detective venture than trying to track down the damned moonstone. But here it was, tucked away at 2.15pm over five afternoons, presumably so that the pain would be over quickly.
Where do I begin? The novel, often described as the first detective novel in the English language, centres on the disappearance of a diamond. Er… that’s it.
Published in 1868, it tells the ‘story’ (think Jackanory rather than Conan Doyle) of Rachel Verinder (Terenia Edwards) who, on her 18th birthday, inherits a diamond left to her by her corrupt uncle army officer who served in India. Enter three dodgy Indian jugglers intent on returning the diamond to its rightful country.
Adapted by Rachel Flowerday and Sasha Hails (EastEnders and Casualty, respectively), the real problem was that the adaptation couldn’t decide what it wanted to be.
Soaped up for daytime, it was a bizarre mix of Victorian melodrama (‘You villain!’) and Walford clichés straight out of the ‘No more secrets’ writing school that inhabits Albert Square.
The production was just about saved by experienced actors – John Thomson (Sergeant Cuff), Sarah Hadland (a hilarious and beautifully observed Drusilla Clack) and David Calder (Mr Bruff). Newcomer Joshua Silver (Franklin Blake) also brought a much-needed energy to scenes with Rachel, who, by episode four, appeared to have entered an advanced stage of rigor mortis (we’ll be seeing a lot more of Silver; trust me).
That’s nothing against Ms Edwards as an actor, but when a director devotes nearly a whole episode to the reading of a letter, it’s a tough call for even the best in the business.
‘I wrote you a letter,’ said Rachel on Thursday. ‘No, please, no more letters!’ I screamed, having just endured a long, long rendition of the letter that had been left for Franklin from the maid who topped herself in episode one. What a shame more people had not taken her lead.
