We are well into December now. So where, I have been asking myself, is the dark ages/Arthurian/druidic-inflected piece of tomfoolery I crave at this time of year? Where is the swords-and-sorcery, days-of-yore vibe, which somehow feels more Christmassy than anything involving reindeers, celebrities in red hats or even re-runs of Den divorcing Ange at the bottom of the stairs?
Answer: until now, none hath cometh. I have been drowning my sorrows in the wassail cup. But what’s this I hear? Could it be the distant sound of Equity horses’ thundering hooves through a carefully frosted forest facsimile? The sneaking of discarded skins and furs out of the Game of Thrones’ storage lockers and on to smaller, cheaper sets? The uncappings of wig glue and beard-gum bottles that betokens the ersatz medieval nonsense of my dreams? Can I hear the stamping of actors’ boots on cold castle floors as they check in with their agents about how casting for the next White Lotus series in Seychelles is going? I think I can!
Lo, The Winter King is upon us – an adaptation of the Bernard Cornwell book of the same name. It plays so fast and loose with it that devoted fans of the original Warlord Chronicles should probably just go and have a lovely re-read of the whole lot instead of tuning in. But for non-purists – settle in, sit back and enjoy 10 hours of bloody warfare, heavy robes, pagan rites, lupine spirits, horrible baddies and worse hair. My oldyn dayes bingo carde is fulle and my wassail cup runneth over.
To business, then! The son and heir of Uther Pendragon (Eddie Marsan), ruler of top but risible-sounding kingdom Dumnonia, is killed by the Saxons. Boo! Uther blames his illegitimate son Arthur (Iain de Caestecker) for not protecting his brother on the battlefield and is about to run a sword through him when Merlin (Nathaniel Martello-White) steps forward and advises banishment instead. Off the battered Arthur goes to Gaul, but not before rescuing a Saxon slave called Derfel (Stuart Campbell) from a Silurian death pit. (This is not the moment of a Doctor Who/Matter of Britain crossover – Siluria is the name given to the three kingdoms in south-east Wales that were occupied by a Celtic tribe, probably originally from Spain, called the Silures – but I digress.) Arthur leaves Derfel to be tended by Merlin and Merlin-in-waiting Nimue (Ellie James) at Avalon and then gets on with being banished.
Cut to eight years later. Derfel has grown up to have the worst wig in history. This is unfortunate, as he is in love with Nimue, who has lovely hair and I can’t see how it will ever work, even before she is told by Merlin that her spiritual gifts will flower only if she dedicates herself to them rather than to a husband and babies. She looks distraught. I suggest she looks at Derfel’s hair again. You’ll be fine, pet. If not, listen to him speak. Either Campbell is paying profound homage to the aural chaos of the Celtic Britons, or they should have spent even more of the wig money on a voice coach. Derfel appears to be from the Cornish border of Welsh Lanarkshire.
By the end of the first episode there has been a new son for Uther and Queen Norwena (Grace Akary), who prompts a dark vision in Merlin, a new deal struck between Uther and Silurian leader (and murderer of Derfel’s mother) Gundleus (Simon Merrells), a lot of rampaging, a lot of acting – some of it good – and a lot of odd directorial choices. Scenes suddenly blur for no reason. Closeups that make no sense go on for ever. Mad framings abound. It’s bizarre, but it makes you appreciate anew all those directors whom you don’t notice, and give thanks. ’Tis the season, after all.
Eventually, Merlin has had enough of his feelings of impending doom and heads to Gaul to bring Arthur back. To great rejoicing, at least in this house, Arthur has washed his face and had a terrific haircut in the intervening eight years and looks as if he could now defeat anyone with a single blow.
And in the remaining episodes? Well, my dears, it is very much more of the same! More sex, more violence, more vengeance, more internecine shenanigans, more acting – some of it good – and more expert jettisoning of historical detail, because, honestly, who needs it? Grab a goblet of mead, curl up under a heated throw and enjoy exactly what you’re getting.
