Patrick Freyne: ‘I do not know whether I want to destroy Poldark or kiss him’

What, oh what, do the ladies see in Ross Poldark (Aidan Turner)? What does he have that I do not? I wear a tricorn hat. I regularly dig for tin on my ancestral lands. I am frequently shirtless. And I am also possessed of a secret sorrow (in fact I have two: I have no shirt and I can’t find any tin). And yet somehow the ladies do not gaze at me as they gaze at Ross Poldark.

This is actually one of the driving forces of the action in Poldark (Sunday, BBC1): other male characters are confounded by and resent the handsome, wilful, charismatic protagonist and are forever trying to destroy him with jealous, nefarious schemes.

Poldark then broods and glowers or flashes a wicked grin or whips his shirt off to do some manual labour and the ladies swoon and the antagonists are all “for f**k’s sake Poldark” or “I hate you Poldark.” And frankly, I know where they’re coming from. I too do not know whether I want to destroy Poldark or kiss him.

Even the gods seem to hate Poldark (for being too sexy). He is beset by the whims of fate, bad luck and poor timing.

The action kicked off in the first series with the news that his true love had married his cousin while he was off repressing democracy in the colonies (Poldark even makes imperial aggression look cool), and it all ended with villagers starving and his child dying of diphtheria.

Murder most foul

The new series begins with Poldark and Demelza in mourning for their child and Poldark charged with murder and wrecking after he led a mob of impoverished locals to retrieve the cargo of a sinking ship.

Poldark’s dissolute gambling-addict cousin Francis continues his downward spiral, which is largely themed around how he is not Poldark. His wife, and Poldark’s former true love, Elizabeth continues to be depressed that she is not married to Poldark. Evil baddie George Warleggan continues to be “an uptight poodle” (Poldark’s words), who stops just short of shaking his fist in the air and shouting “Poldaaaark!” whenever Poldark looms handsomely into view.

There are new characters. John Nettles turns up as a landed gent who has a ward, Caroline Penvenen (Gabriella Wilde). They are not yet obsessed with Poldark but it is surely coming. Caroline bustles from a carriage carrying a pug and followed by a gormless youth, one of whom is introduced as “Mr Trevaunance, respected member of parliament”. It’s unclear, but I hope it’s the pug. And I hope he is Poldark’s antagonist in series three.

Anyway, our heroes respond to their travails by staring out to sea, which is what people did in the 18th century in lieu of television, or by whipping their shirts off and digging for tin, which is what they did in lieu of Pokemon Go.

Poldark’s melodrama wouldn’t work if Aidan Turner weren’t so good. He adds a streak of mischievousness to the character’s agonised brooding. His Poldark is filled with appealing contradictions. He is well intentioned but stubborn. He has a sense of justice but he is quick to anger. He is beset by sorrow but knows how to have a good time. His relationship with his wife is one of the most believably tender I’ve seen on television. Things happen to Poldark and Poldark happens to things. Poldark is a great protagonist.

Not so much Victoria, another eponymous character in another period drama on a rival network (Sunday, UTV Ireland). Her name is more commonly used as an adjective than a noun. She is a setting not a protagonist. She is an era in which other people have adventures. Her own adventures are – there’s no nice way of saying this – a bit shit.

Bit of a sponge

Queen Victoria (Jenna Coleman) didn’t really do anything. She was just there. It’s a bit like making your protagonist the sky or a piece of cake or a nice armchair (which Victoria resembled as she aged).

Here are some working titles that this programme didn't have: The Dynamic Queen Victoria and her Great Deeds or Victoria: My Struggle or Queen Vic's Saturday Night Fun Party.

The working title was more likely to have been: Victoria, She was Just There or Victoria: Freakish Pampered Baby Person or Queen Victoria, She Married Her Cousin And That's About It.

It’s hard to get excited about a with-the-odds overdog story. So the script writers end up just make things up. In this week’s episode they have Victoria pardoning the Newport chartists who sought universal male suffrage and were, as a result, sentenced to be hung, drawn and quartered.

In real life, she had nothing to do with pardoning the Newport chartists. The nearest Victoria came to pardoning or indeed meeting a poor person was when she mounted one at the annual The Queen Rides a Poor Person Like a Pony Festival.

To fill out this thin material, Victoria is surrounded by colourful servants – who enthuse about what makes her a great queen (answer: inheriting the title from her grandfather) – and a host of comedy Germans, like her uncle, Herr Klink, who try to control her because she has such great power (spoiler: she has no real power; Britain is a constitutional monarchy). They also try to get her to marry one of her first cousins because, you know, that’s always a great idea.

But no! Victoria does not want to marry her cousins. No way. She's a free spirit and a frisky granddad chaser. She exchanges meaningful stares with silver-fox prime minister Lord Melbourne, who in real life probably didn't spend his time wandering the palace coquettishly teasing young queens with fatherly concern and by doing lunges in his tight britches. And he probably didn't look like Rufus Sewell. Then again, Queen Victoria didn't look like Jenna Coleman either, but, sadly, Bungle from Rainbow wasn't available.

So, if you are enjoying Victoria you are wrong. You are, most likely, a crypto-royalist desperately projecting incident and gravitas on to a plotless void, much like I desperately project a complex inner-life on to my cat (that is my third secret sorrow).

In conclusion: Poldark, good; Victoria, bad. And now, if you need me to sort out any other burning questions you might have, I'll be over here with my shirt off gazing meaningfully out to sea.