Period drama is no new phenomenon: us Brits have a serious nostalgic streak, especially if it involves outrageously rich characters (we don’t ever worry about where the money comes from) with preposterously large houses.

However, the huge financial success of the increasingly ridiculous Downton Abbey has sparked demand for the genre, and we’re not in short supply: while some are just a tired combination of bustles and boredom, several offer decent plots alongside the covetable costumes and mansions, as well as dialogue that doesn’t make you laugh for all the wrong reasons. 

But what is it we’re so desperate to ‘remember’ about the British character and history? 

Golly Gosh what Female Solidarity in the 1950s:

Call the Midwife ensemble drama about an eclectic group of nuns and  nurses working as midwives, based on Jennifer Worth’s memoirs. Naturally the subject matter entails a lot of babies – probably too many for all but the broodiest of tastes – and too much umbilical cord for anyone’s taste. But if you can stomach this and the almost equally nauseating voice-over that ends each episode it’s well worth a watch. Set in the East End, it’s a far cry from the glamour of most recent period dramas, and focuses on new recruit Jenny’s struggle to come to terms with the poverty and squalor surrounding her. The show is genuinely moving in its portrayal of the damage inflicted by the cruelty of the workhouses, it’s also genuinely funny – largely due to Miranda Hart’s show-stealing turn as ‘Chummy’.

Gadzukes aren’t Brits ‘endearingly’ stuck-up:

Mr Selfridge is ITV’s new Sunday evening offering (taking the vacated Downton slot) and it certainly seems as though they have high hopes of flogging this one to the Americans as well. The opening episode is obsessed with the American retail entrepreneur charging about London shaking up the stiff-collared and snobby Brits with his shockingly progressive ways: trying to get a shopgirl to get the gloves out on the counter is just one of his heinous crimes (for which he is, naturally, ejected from the establishment). I think we’re supposed to find Mr Selfridge terribly dashing and debonair but he’s actually incredibly irritating, with his tendency to indulge in selfaggrandizing speeches and generally behave as if he’s curing cancer rather than flogging socks. Nevertheless the attention to detail in the sets, costumes and props is impressive and maybe the characterisation will pick up in time. It’s on Sundays at 9pm if you want to find out.

By Jove the Victorians were Dark and Twisty:

Hunderby is the latest offering from the remarkable Julia Davis (Nighty Night, Gavin and Stacey): a bizarre, highly original, twisted Gothic comedy with strong Du Maurier influences, set in the 1830s. It’s fantastically filthy and contains some of the most horrendous sex scenes known to man, prefaced by such tempting invitations as the curate’s “Come bride, ‘tis a quarter after ten, we shall intercourse until a 30 after”. The writing is inspired and there’s been no expense spared on the production values: extensive period details and stunning exterior locations all accentuate the absurd and tastelessness of the characters and plots. I can’t promise you’ll love it, but I can promise you will never have seen anything like it and that you might even like it. 

Jiminy Cricket – look at our British tradition of wonderful eccentricity:

Blandings is adapted from P.G. Wodehouse’s series of novels and short stories. The problem with adapting Wodehouse is that it is flawless in the original: one should never attempt to improve on the words of a man who can write that “she looked like she’d been poured into her clothes and forgotten to say when.” Unfortunately this adaptation strays a little too far from the original and at times relies on crude slapstick rather than letting Wodehouse’s words get the laughs they so deserve.

Quentin Tarantino returns this week with Django Unchained: an ultra-violent historical revenge fantasy (think Inglourious Basterds but with slavery). As usual, Tarantino’s film has been the centre of controversy and had some sniffy reviews. But I think it’s brilliant – all nearly three hours of it – entertaining, funny, and cleverer than you can register on first viewing.

It’s 1858, Django (Jamie Foxx) is a slave freed by Dr Shultz (Christoph
Waltz), a bounty hunter, to help him identify three criminal brothers. The
two bond bloodily and Shultz helps Django find his wife, Broomhilda (Kerry Washington), from whom he has been separated. This takes them
to Candyland, Di Caprio’s slave plantation.

The film’s real strength, aside from Tarantino’s usual lunatic-brilliance and comi-violence, is in its genre play. Django Unchained is part
Spaghetti Western (the name is taken from a 1966 Western) and part fairytale: ‘Broomhilda’ is a damsel-indistress of German folklore. Indeed,
Washington’s character does little aside from screaming, swooning
and being ridiculously attractive.

The tone of the film is as absurd as you’d hope, aided by a soundtrack
which combines traditional western and country music with Tupac during moments of triggerhappiness (what this says about the violent revenge of a slave and the violent narratives of gangster-rap is a disturbing
question).

If you are so inclined, there is a smorgasbord of potential reasons to be offended, from cinematised slavery, depictions of black Americans, depictions of white Americans through to glorified violence and inconsequential murder. And critics have been hitting this buffet hard.

Tarantino’s latest film undeniably raises some dark questions about cinema, history and violence. But at least you leave asking them. Just don’t direct them at Tarantino himself. As Channel 4‘s Krishnan Guru-Murthy discovered, he’ll “shut your butt down.”

Maybe there is something fairly dark about sitting in a room full of people laughing joyously at what is basically an extremely gory massacre, but Tarantino has a get-out-of-jail-free card: it’s funny. The script is sharp, the visuals are brilliant (watch out for the KKK’s masked charge and Django’s Austin Powers moment) and ultimately, thanks to Tarantino’s morally-unambiguous piece of history (cynically chosen?), the audience laughs their way to Django’s triumphantly silly end.

★★★★☆
Four Stars

Angels in America is a three hour epic. Sitting in the auditorium before the performance began I wondered whether I would make it through. The front of the stage is empty, bar a simple coffin, which remains onstage for the entire first half. An effective symbol of the ever imposing spectre of death and the fate that Prior Walter (Ed Barr-Sim) faces. The red curtain hides all else from view. Opening the play is a challenge which falls wholly on the shoulders of Natasha Heliotis, who rises to it well. Alone on stage she is Rabbi Ibsidor, eulogising at a funeral, a eulogy addressed to us. The audience is the congregation. It is demanded that we suspend our disbelief and engage with the show.

This is a demand which continues throughout the entire performance. The rest of the set is similarly sparse but superbly designed. The stage is on two levels. The black space is dominated by steps and the somewhat gothic double bed they lead to. Other locations are created using only the bear essentials. These are brought on and off as required. Unfortunately this entailed scene changes by stage hands, which became tedious and sometimes interrupted the flow of the piece. The only saving grace of the scene changes were in their drawing attention to the brilliant soundtrack. However, the overall approach certainly proved that less is more. As an audience we are given the appropriate cues but must work to fill out the picture. We invest in the actors and trust in them to create the drama. The result is an audience that is captivated. In suspending our disbelief the script’s surrealism becomes believable and can be accepted and appreciated without the need for dodgy effects.

The actors deal with the surreal admirably. They appear from trapdoors and jumping off the back of the stage, they disappear with grace and a certain magic. Selali Fiamanya excels as Mr. Lies of the International Order of Travel Agents – a figment of Harper Pitt’s (Amelia Sparling) valium-fueled delusions. Sparling’s performance is also solid, if occasionally a little self-conscious.

The overall standard of acting in Angels is very high. Special mention should go to Barney White who is spectacular as Roy Cohn. He is utterly convincing and his American drawl never wavers. Ed Barr-Sim also convinces as Prior, who he plays with confidence and sensitivity. Arty Froushan successfully asks us to empathise with Louis Ironson, a man who leaves his dying lover. The conversation he shares with Fiamanya’s Belize is a highlight (despite the empty coffee cups, which are sipped on with great frequency). Dugie Young, as Joe Pitt was wooden at times – this was perhaps caused by the fact that his performance was too often directed to the wall – though he did warm up as the play ran on. Georgina Hellier switches between her four roles with expert differentiation and skill. The two Priors-from-the-past embody the humour than pervades the play.

At the play’s worst you will look at your watch in hope of the interval and ponder why the doctor is wearing Crocs when the play is set in the 1980s. At its best you will laugh, cry, revel in tension and reflect on the challenging themes of Tony Kushner’s script. Overall, much credit should be given to Jack Sain, who has dealt very well with a challenging piece.