TV REVIEW: It is 1850s England. A footman - dressed in brass-buttoned, over-sized livery - is on his way to synchronise a watch with the chimes from the local spire. He meets a man dressed as a shepherd, complete with crook and herd of sheep and mutton-chop sideburns, writes Shane Hegarty.
He is perched on a hillside awaiting the return of the master of the estate, who has spent several months journeying to and from Italy. The shepherd is a little grumpy about his garb. "The master's idea of a pastoral idyll, innit. Wanker." Excuse me? And you think: finally, it's happened. Somebody has made a period drama that doesn't care about period. That has no time for nuance, for depth, for crafting a script set in another era but "imbued" with contemporary "resonance". Rather, Servants revels in anachronisms, is impatient for incongruity. It is powered along by a most un-Victorian folk-jazz score of drums and xylophones. The whole piece carries the attitude of a surly teenager being asked questions in history class. Its evenings always end with a knees-up, boys vie for the attentions of the best-looking girls, randy staff cop a feel in the shadows of the house, others swig booze behind the carriage sheds. The story of the domestic underclass, it transpires, is that of a prolonged fancy-dress school disco.
The plot involves Joe Absolom, as the cheeky chappy George Cosmo, arriving at the Sturges Borne family house to take up a position as second footman. He proves his usefulness by rounding the corner at the exact point of every major plot development. A case of brandy goes missing: George stumbles upon the butler Jarvis (Christopher Fulford) quaffing a bottle in his office. He fancies nursemaid Grace (Felicity Jones): he arrives in the nick of time to grab her from the clutches of her angry fiancé. Grace stands half-naked on the roof in impersonation of Greek goddess Artemis: he happens to have a front-row seat.
Servants is a co-production between RTÉ and BBC Wales. It is set in the West Country. Ireland's chief representative is austere housekeeper Flora Ryan (Orla Brady). She engages in awkward, sexually-fizzling moments with Mr Jarvis. She also gets the worst lines. "My back passage is still obstructed by some half-naked heathen." You could just about hear the words through the grinding of Brady's teeth as she forced herself to say them.
And yet, as a package it proves quite engaging. Lucy Gannon's script is light, unself-conscious and never likely to give you mental indigestion before you go to bed. There are intermittent sight gags, and the volume is cranked up at the most scatological moments.
At one point, George received a bloody nose. As he picked at the dried blood we were treated to a sound not unlike a horse walking on dry twigs. It may be a co-production, but humour has not been caught between a rock and a coalface.
And given that they have put Ros na Rún on the Irish syllabus, perhaps they'll be similarly tempted to employ Servants as a teaching aid. I mean, it's history, innit.
In The Second Coming, Christopher Eccleston starred as a Manchester video store clerk who discovers he's the Son of God. Hold on, hasn't he played this role already? No, insists his CV. He has, though, played a narrowing variety of roles that involve him waking up one morning in a sudden grip of evangelical zeal, and thereafter delivering his lines through contortion and spittle. I challenge you to watch any of his dramas and last five minutes without seeing him plead for something.
In this drama he played Steven Baxter, a deity with only three O levels. Russell T. Davies's drama enjoyed the saltiness inherent in dropping the Son of God in Manchester. Baxter's divine revelation came at the back of a nightclub, while snogging his best friend Judith (Lesley Sharp). Forty days later, after subsisting on a diet of pork pies and moss, he stumbled out of Saddleworth Moor and on to the A635, blabbering about being the Son of God. Then, he posted his arrival on the Internet. "Can't you just look up porn like everyone else?" asked his mate, Peter.
Soon he was turning night into day at Maine Road, no doubt infuriating the marketing executives at Old Trafford but getting the attention of the world. He told the gathering crowds that heaven is empty and hell is bursting at the seams. The world had only days to write a third testament or the apocalypse would follow. Women sent pictures of themselves in bikinis. Richard and Judy had phone-ins. The non-Christian world, as you can imagine, yanked its collar in collective nervousness.
Meanwhile, Satan popped up in every nook: police officers, a social misfit Judith meets through a dating agency. He had sent his devils to disrupt the saviour, with strict instructions to crank up the heavy metal at the appropriate moments. Their ultimate aim was to convert Steven Baxter. Soon, they promised, he will weaken and fall. He will be seduced by darkness and reign over an empire of evil. The younger among you may recognise the plot as being somewhat similar to that of Star Wars.
After an impressive first instalment, the second helping of The Second Coming settled into a jogging pace of a supernatural drama in which you knew the budget could never stretch to an apocalyptic battle between good and evil.
Instead, Judith convinced Baxter that the third testament should be his death; bringing religion, heaven, hell and the cause of so many wars with him. So God committed suicide in a terraced house in Manchester, over a plate of pasta, tomatoes, mixed spices and rat poison. "Would you like a beer with that?" Judith asked God. Christopher Eccleston, though, will rise again. Perhaps this time in a light sitcom.
In Holidays in the Axis of Evil, Ben Anderson began his tour of North Korea at the border, where the soldiers of the South and North literally face off against each other, fists clenched in a heightened state of machismo. "Wear your kevlar and seatbelt at all times," instructed the rusting signs, although you would presume that if you need the former, you might fear that the latter could impede any sudden need to run away very fast.
An American GI pointed out the massive masts on the far hills, designed to jam all radio and television broadcasts that might dilute the propaganda of the North Korean media and turn the heads of its people. The North Koreans, he insisted, believe that the BMW is manufactured in their country. It's a wholly believable suggestion, when you consider that it is the only country in the world with a dead president.
Anderson checked into his hotel room, with its empty fridge and one channel on the television set. "I'm not saying I'm paranoid and I'm relaxing, but I haven't managed to break out of a whisper yet." His guides, Mr Park and Miss Park (no relation), were wholly endearing in their indoctrinated, credulous, we-will-crush-the-imperialist-Americans kind of way. He had presumed he would meet the preposterous face of political brainwashing, and end his trip by confronting these people with the truth, but he just couldn't do it to them. "They're breaking my heart."
Anderson was informed that the reported death of millions during the 1990s famine was only Western propaganda. "It wasn't that bad." He visited the Victorious Fatherland Liberation War Museum, which commemorates Kim Il Sung's destruction of Japanese imperialism without a single mention of World War II. He was told how the South attacked the North first in 1950. If the South attacked, he asked, how come it was the North that made the early advances. "I will explain later," mumbled his guide. Weren't the Chinese and Russians in the country at the time? "I will explain later."
It is a land obsessed with war. One in 10 people wear military uniform. Its streets are wide enough to double as runways. Its metro stations are built 100 metres deep to double as air-raid shelters. Tank traps are everywhere. A painting at the fine art museum depicts a nuclear warhead plummeting on America.
Despite this, North Korea is keen to attract tourists, to build on the 150 who visited last year, even if they were mostly journalists posing as wide-eyed backpackers. "North Korea is the road kill of history," said Condoleezza Rice. "We Will Wipe America From The Face of the Earth," said the painting at the museum. The slogan competition for the North Korean Tourist Board starts here.
Reviewed:
Servants
RTÉ1, Monday
The Second Coming
ITV, Sunday & Monday
Holidays in the Axis of Evil
BBC2, Monday