New New Doctor Who season two: the parting of the ways?

Nowadays, I sometimes watch an old Doctor Who episode not just because I feel like it, but to remind me that Doctor Who actually was good during the first Davies era and the Steven Moffat era. I wasn't imagining it, and so back in December 2022, when I was so excited about the return of Russell T Davies (aka RTD), I had no way of knowing how hard his second stint as showrunner would crash and burn.

True, I was apprehensive about his politics, though not apprehensive enough as it turns out. The problem with Davies's second run – the "RTD 2" run – is that not only is the political commentary dialled up to eleven and clumsier than ever (and it wasn't exactly subtle in the olden days), but the things he did well are less in evidence, if at all. 

Where are the grounded characters and everyday situations that you believed in? I barely feel I know the new companions Ruby Sunday and Belinda Chandra at all. Ruby's adoptive mother Carla and grandmother Cherry had some promise, but they weren't given enough screen time to develop (and it was a shame that Carla ended up betraying Ruby in two aborted time lines over two seasons). All the UNIT staff seemed to be given about one or two character traits each. You can't blame the Who Culture youtubers for nicknaming Colonel Ibrahim "Colonel Sexy", because what else is he? I'm starting to wonder whether I like Kate Stewart simply because Jemma Redgrave is such a great actress, as I still don't quite know what the character is about after all these years. And what is Rose Noble (who ought to be in school) doing at the UNIT headquarters at all? Not even Davies himself seems to know. 

As for Belinda's family, I kept thinking there was a plot twist coming where it would turn out she actually didn't have any parents, in spite of her talking about them all the time, because we didn't get to meet them. Belinda's mother eventually makes a brief appearance, but her father is kept off-screen. What's with all the missing fathers? Davies, who once opened up Doctor Who to romantic girl-meets-Doctor storylines, seems to have acquired a new distaste for heterosexual mating and its manifestations.

While we're on the subject of characterisation, what happened to the characters being interestingly flawed even when they happen to tick some minority box? Ruth Madeley was allowed to play a complex character in Years and Years – the cheeky little sister whose judgment wasn't always sound (she voted for the dangerous populist Vivienne Rook). Her Shirley Bingham, on the other hand, is little more than a token disabled character, seemingly flawless.

What happened to bringing back characters from Classic Who in a meaningful and thrilling manner, instead of hauling them in and then completely wasting their potential? Who can forget the Dalek-Cyberman face-off ("this is not war, this is pest control"), the Master's return and the confrontation between the Doctor and Davros in RTD's first era? And now what do we get? Not one but two excellent actresses taking on the Rani, but given precious little to work with. The Rani is dispatched unceremoniously and without any real effort on the Doctor's part about midway through the final episode. Still, she is lucky compared to the other Classic Who villain Omega, resurrected as a soulless CGI monster then got rid of within minutes. I haven't even seen any Omega adventures, and I still felt offended. And what happened to the Doctor's granddaughter Susan, of whom we saw the merest glimpse but who then didn't appear in the finale at all? 

To get to the point, season two of the RTD 2 era had so many flaws they even became apparent to viewers who have no problem with the politics, which is still very much in evidence, as it was in season one. What particularly cheesed me off about the commentary this time around was that its particular target was white young men with a taste for gaming or social media – in other words, we got a look at what Davies imagines New New Who's angriest critics are like. 

Both Belinda's controlling ex-boyfriend Alan and the duplicitous podcaster Conrad were poorly understood caricatures. I should have enjoyed the episode "Wish World" as it contained a fake reality, a trope I'm usually a sucker for. But the moral arrogance behind the depiction of Conrad's Wish World as everything the seemingly progressive Davies despises was hard to watch. Of course a monster such as Conrad must be in favour of women staying in the home, against homosexuality and ignorant even of the existence of the disabled and "dispossessed". Unlike, one imagines, Davies, who is all for rainbows and puppies and world peace.

To be fair, the finale did take a step back when it came to the Conrad hate (I seem to be the only one who appreciated that Ruby showed him mercy instead of tearing into him). But that is about all that can be said for it. Ncuti Gatwa regenerating into Billie Piper (who played companion Rose Tyler in RTD's first era) was a tired stunt that had even me groaning, and I have a high tolerance for fan service. But to tell the truth, I was fed up long before then. I'm not sure what to do about Doctor Who in the future. I can't seriously be prepared to stop watching it, can I?

What do you mean, "don't take Eurovision too seriously"?

The Ascension Day holiday, usually a good time for blogging, will be a little busier than usual this year, so I'd better get my Eurovision post out of the way this week instead. The first question that suggests itself is: Am I upset that Sweden didn't win? Answer: Nope. Not even the littlest bit.

Now, don't get me wrong. The Finnish trio KAJ who represented Sweden this year are charming boys. Their number, which poked gentle fun at Swedish conceptions of Finns, has done wonders for relations between Sweden and Finland, and is very easy to hum. But it is a jokey song, designed to appeal to those who prefer Eurovision to be as wacky as possible. And I'm not one of them.

My daily newspaper was fond of proclaiming that it was about time Sweden sent something a little more light-hearted to the contest. According to Swedish journalists, Sweden had started to become unpopular by sending high-quality, earnest pop songs to Eurovision year after year, as if we cared about winning way too much. We needed to learn how to chill a bit more and not take the whole thing so seriously.

It's a point of view, I guess, but it's not mine. There's no denying Eurovision tends to be full of "out there" moments, and there are probably lots of fans who lean into the crazy and think that that's what it's all about. But for me, the Eurovision Song Contest is primarily just that – a song contest. You don't have to win it, certainly (though it's preferable to make the final, and not finish last among the finalists). But you should aim to send a good, solid song to represent your country. Jokes should be left to the host country's self-deprecating intermission number.

I mean, can you see the Norwegians sending skiers who clown about in the snow to the Ski World Championships, just to make everyone feel better because Norway usually tends to win? No, me neither, worse luck.

Basel did a stellar job of hosting this year, with hosts that actually had a matey chemistry and good timing in their delivery of a not-too-cringey script. As for the songs, here are some of the memorable moments:

Positive national stereotype of the year: Spain Maybe not the strongest on rewatch, but I had a weakness for the Flamenco (or something)-dancing Spanish diva, who ended her number reclining in a swoony pose in the capable arms of a brave background dancer (imagine if he'd dropped her). Spectacle, glamour, and pretty nice to listen to.

Aww-inducing act of the year: Italy "I don't have the face of a tough guy" – no, that you don't, sweetheart. These last years, Italy has shown a certain amount of street cred, and this year's entry, though not as rocky as, say, Måneskin, continued the trend. Lucio's clown makeup did make me feel as if a character from an old Swedish children's programme was having an existential crisis (to Swedish readers I need only say: banana), but the overall effect was that of a cute troubadour acquitting himself with credit.

Shameless filth of the year: Finland and Malta You're in trouble when a Finnish blonde riding an enormous microphone up to the sky while yelling "Ich komme" ("I come", in German for some reason, I mean ta very much but even so) isn't even the most tasteless thing Eurovision has to offer. Instead, that prize goes to Malta. Can you blame the EBU for demanding that the word "kant" (Maltese for "song", apparently) be removed from the song title? The number still leaves little to the imagination, with the singer entering through an open, heavily-lipsticked mouth, widely-spread female legs waving in the background, and dancers cavorting in the foreground. By the end, the singer is seated on a bouncing ball. I'd say it's pretty clear it's not song she's serving. But what are the gently rocking leopards doing there?

Nice singers, shame about the song of the year: United Kingdom It may seem I'm always picking on the poor old UK, but honestly, limeys, it's just because I love you and want you to do better. This time, we had three female pros from musical theatre. That's a good start – but what were they singing? Every time you thought the song was about to go somewhere, it inexplicably slowed down in a stop-go-stop-go manner. Not sophisticated, just weird.

Earworm of the year: Luxemburg Oh dear, are we still doing the "I'm not a puppet" cliché? Still, it has to be said, the refrain sticks in your brain very effectively.

I'm still avoiding those elephants, as you can see. Sorry about that.

The guilty pleasure of Riverdale

Imagine, if you can, a TV series called Duckburg, where the characters are not quite as you remember them from Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse comics. To start with, naturally, they're all human. Flintheart Glomgold is married to Magica de Spell, and the murder of their son Gladstone Gander forms the main mystery to be resolved during the show's first season. Mickey Mouse has made clear to Minnie in the very first episode that he's only interested in her as a friend. That's just as well, as Minnie starts a sweet romance with an unusually broody Goofy, who has plans of becoming a writer but is somewhat too mixed up in a biker gang. Mickey, for his part, is dating the daughter of Peg-Leg Pete – who incidentally has hit the gym big time.

This, you would agree, would be taking a great deal of liberties with the source material. But heck, I'd watch it.

Without actually having read the American comic Archie (except stray pages that the cunning algorithm has started to show in my Facebook feed), I'd say this is a pretty fair analogy to the difference between Archie and the TV series Riverdale. The comic, from what I have been told and can make out from said Facebook snippets, is a light-hearted affair where girl-next-door Betty and rich girl Veronica vie for the attention of the red-headed titular character. In the TV series, on the other hand, the young protagonists' lives and loves are endlessly complicated by dark and twisted mysteries, and the outwardly idyllic small town is full of buried corpses (literally). It's borderland insane – but I am hooked.

So why, considering that the quality does go downhill after a neat first season, and the plot lines get ever more derailed, did I spend the better part of a day (I had and have a cold, so there was an excuse) bingeing the last episodes of season four of Riverdale instead of, say, finally watching The Conclave? My reasons are highly subjective:

It's Once Upon A Time methadone: Small-town intrigue? Check. Cosy diner where everyone goes? Check. Twisted goings-on behind an idyllic front? Check. Powerful mayors and sheriffs who wear an actual star on their police uniform? Check. Lots and lots of relationship drama? Check. Riverdale gives me enough "heightened reality" – or rather total lack of reality – vibes to remind me of my all-time favourite series. 

True, there's no Rumple/Mr Gold for my heart to ache over, but that can be restful. And the villains on offer are entertaining, in their fashion. In the first season, the Blossom family, with their 19th-century Gothic Aesthetic, are an absolute delight, but their importance diminishes as the series goes on. The exception is red-headed bombshell Cheryl, who moves from bitch to wild-card to generally well-disposed towards the heroes. She's always fun with her withering put-downs and quirks, but what can I say? I had hoped that the Blossom family drama would have turned out somewhat differently.

What of Peg-Leg Pete then – or rather Hiram Lodge, father of the enterprising Veronica Lodge? I mean, he's handsome – conventionally so, but they can't all be silver foxes. However, much as my superego appreciates that the series doesn't go the clichéd route of turning a "normal" businessman into a villainous mastermind, and instead opts for making Hiram a straight-out gangster, my id is a bit disappointed. As tired as the Evil Capitalist trope is, it usually leads to more toothsome villains (in my personal opinion) than the Tough Mobster trope. Hiram's fun, with his wide-eyed "what did I do?" reaction to well-founded accusations, but he's a bit too macho for me.

I can catch up on the soap-watching experience: I was too young for the classic soaps such as Dallas and Dynasty, and though there were soaps aimed at teenagers around when I myself was one, I wasn't patient enough back then to try them. Any series with more than 100 episodes I wrote off immediately. 

Now, though, I see the appeal of series where you're not going to run out of episodes in a hurry. There's a particular appeal in watching the script writers come up with increasingly far-fetched drama just to keep the story going. Yes, it will lead to arcs you don't care for very much and want wrapped up as soon as possible, but if the writers do their job properly there will be enough plates spinning to keep you interested even through the rough patches. And there's always the hope that they'll hit gold and suddenly introduce a storyline almost as good as in that first season you fondly remember.

The protagonists are really likeable: At the centre of the series are four friends (who are supposed to be high-schoolers but naturally are played by actors in their twenties). They eventually pair up into two couples: Archie and Veronica on the one hand, Betty and Jughead (real name: Forsythe Pendleton III, and no, he's not "old money") on the other. Of course there are plenty of bust-ups, but essentially they stand by each other through thick and thin and are a bunch easy to root for. 

Betty is the stand-out – a good girl with a dark side, who generally manages to keep "Dark Betty" under control and do the right thing, while being well able to counter any bitchy attack with full force. Jughead has his own scruffy charm, and Veronica is an entertaining powerhouse, always dragging the somewhat aimless Archie in her wake with gentle force. 

Archie himself is, in some ways, the weak link, saddled as he is with a certain righteous blandness. His character is also one of the main victims of the soap format: every half-season or so, he's seriously into something new, something he's convinced will be the mainstay of his future: music, boxing, helping disadvantaged youths, you name it. You just want him to pick a lane and stop making hair-raising mistakes. On the other hand, having a hero character in need of support from his more colourful friends isn't such a bad idea. And let's face it: the hero was never going to be the main attraction for me.

Sorry, ladies, Heathcliff is still the worst

I've done it: after far too many years, decades even, I've reread Wuthering Heights, and I found it a surprisingly riveting read. Although my memory served me right when it came to the characters – many of them are awful, and even the more likeable ones have irritating traits it's sometimes hard to forgive – the book proved to be such a ripping yarn I didn't mind it as much as I did in my teens. As they say, there's a lot to unpack here, so I'll limit myself. My defence of Nelly Dean will have to keep, as will my slightly Harry-Potterish theory that Joseph the near-unintelligible servant is some sort of house gnome.

My greatest surprises when revisiting Wuthering Heights were firstly its sheer readability, and secondly how young most of the protagonists are. Much of the characters' over-excitability and bad decisions could at least partly be down to youthful folly. At the book's first crisis, when Heathcliff runs away after hearing Catherine reject him (but not staying around to hear her love declaration, such as it is) and she falls ill, she is only fifteen and he about a year older. When Heathcliff returns, he is barely out of his teens and Catherine nineteen at most. 

The other main characters are also youngsters. Edgar Linton's the same age as his rival, Isabella Linton is only eighteen when she develops her crush on Heathcliff, and even Hindley – who's eight years older than his sister Catherine – is only twenty-three when he loses his beloved wife, and dies before he's hit thirty. In the second part of the novel, there's a whole new set of teenagers and a twentysomething acting foolishly. Much of the high drama in the novel becomes more understandable in the context of teenage angst and self-absorption, though it certainly doesn't explain all of the odd behaviour. 

Even Lockwood, the novel's framing-device narrator (before he leaves the story to Nelly), is an example of callow youth. He's exiled himself to the moors after having rejected a girl he pined for when she showed signs of returning his interest: a typical young man's mistake. Stunted emotional growth and immaturity is something of a theme in the book.

But enough of that. The real question is: do I, villain-lover that I am, still dislike Heathcliff as much as I did when I was younger? The answer is: well, yeah!

To be fair, though, I can more easily see his interest to certain female readers than I could before. He does have some features that usually make for a good villain: he's intelligent, handsome and perfectly miserable. I was sorry for him in the later part of the book, when his loneliness becomes so acute that even Lockwood's company is a relief to him. Also, as I'm someone who enjoys her creature comforts, the scenes where Heathcliff can't bring himself to eat while haunted by Catherine, even when the food's right in front of him, hit me quite hard. So I guess I have to accord the man some leader of the pack appeal. But apart from that – ugh.

I guess how you respond to Heathcliff partly comes down to whether you think he has a case to start with, and I don't. I've always been Team Hindley. Now, don't get me wrong. I know Hindley's a pretty useless character, what with his drinking, knocking people about and gambling (mostly as a plot contrivance, but still). I'm less inclined to forgive Hindley for neglecting his son out of grief for his wife than when I was younger and more romantic, and he would have gone to pot even without Heathcliff's help. His downfall reminded me of Gerald Fairley's in A Woman of Substance, of all things ("That was my plan, but you did it yourself, really"). 

Nevertheless, Hindley was Mr Earnshaw's son, and Mr Earnshaw's money and land were rightfully his. There was zero reason for him to keep spoiling his father's pet, who lorded it over him while in favour, when Mr Earnshaw died. If Earnshaw wanted Heathcliff to be a gentleman so badly, he should have made provisions for him, and Heathcliff should have had the wits to keep the peace with his future master. Besides, I'm certain the little blighter broke that fiddle.

Even if Heathcliff had had a case, though, I must say his defenders are able to swallow a great deal. He's a bully and a sadist. His psychological torture of Isabella, young Cathy (his great love's daughter), his own son Linton and others inspires cruelty in them in turn. Isabella retaliates against Heathcliff; Cathy also lands some psychological blows on Heathcliff but also torments poor Hareton (Hindley's son); Linton is encouraged to torment Cathy and everyone is free to have a go at Linton, including Joseph. Though personally I found the psychological sadism the hardest to take, there's a lot of brute force applied as well.

And then, there's the tiresome speechifying on Heathcliff's part, mostly phrased as confidences to Nelly (a rare touching trait in both Heathcliff and the ghastly Catherine the elder is how they both keep confiding in Nelly long after she's lost any sympathy for them). Some of it is self-congratulatory moustache-twirling; some of it teeth-gnashing fee-fi-fo-fum-ing (I'll think you'll find there's no country anywhere where you're allowed to perform vivisection on your son and future daughter-in-law, mate); some of it simply disturbing rambling (those plans respecting Heathcliff's corpse and Catherine's – yikes). In many ways, though he becomes more Machiavellian as he grows older, Heathcliff stays a vengeful and obsessive teenager emotionally until the end, or close to the end at any rate. As Pepe le Pew would say, "Eet ees de leetle boy in him".

If Heathcliff is your cup of tea, then fine, but admit this much at any rate: he's not a hero, or a tragic hero, or an anti-hero. He's a villain. And I guess some like their villains rough.

A very English (somewhat chilly) mini-series

Finally, I've followed the strong recommendations of friends and critics and watched the mini-series A Very English Scandal from 2018, which, as luck would have it, was still available on Swedish streaming. The title's not a lie: it's certainly very English indeed. Given this and my anglophile tendencies, one would maybe have expected me to warm to it more, but perhaps it's just not meant to be the kind of story you warm to. In any case, I did enjoy it.

The odds are stacked in the show's favour. It stars Hugh Grant, Ben Whishaw, Alex Jennings and a great supporting cast; it's directed by Stephen Frears; it's based on a book by John Preston (if it's the same John Preston I'm thinking of, I used to like his reviews in The Sunday Telegraph a lot); and, last but not least, it's written by Russell T Davies, back when he was still good. All right, maybe that's unfair, but I'm still bitter about what he's serving up in Doctor Who these days. In the best scenes in Scandal, you wonder how it can be the same man who wrote this and drivel like the "male-presenting Time Lord" speech in "The Star Beast" or the clumsy eat-the-rich-kids satire in "Dot and Bubble".

The scandal in question is one I know nothing about, which can be both an advantage and a bit dangerous. It concerns Jeremy Thorpe, leader of the Liberal Party in England in the Sixties and Seventies, who was doing really well until people found out, one: that he had a male ex-lover and two: that he tried to have said male ex-lover killed.

At least, that was what Thorpe was accused of. From the point of view of the TV series, there's never any doubt that he was as guilty as a man can be. This is where the danger of not knowing anything comes in, because I buy it all, even while wondering how a seemingly canny politician could have been so stupid. Although the characterisation is far from black and white, you do briefly wonder about the ethical aspects of making a juicy TV drama of something that happened not so long ago (Jeremy Thorpe's son is probably still alive). But heck, it is a good story.

In spite of its sharp script and good pace, underscored by lively music from the excellent Murray Gold (more British talent), I wasn't completely blown away by the first episode. It was hard to care too much about an affair gone sour when the persons involved were Grant's callous Thorpe and Whishaw's neurotic Norman Josiffe, later Scott, who as soon as he was ditched reported Thorpe to the cops and wrote a 17-page-long letter to his (Thorpe's) mother. But the show got steadily better – or rather, more engaging, as it was always good. By the third episode, I was at the edge of my seat, and here it is a definite advantage not to know how it all turned out. The last sentence of the "what happened then" summaries at the end hits the at once droll and moving note it aims for.

If anyone is short-changed in this drama, it's Jeremy Thorpe. Not that Hugh Grant doesn't do an excellent job of playing him, but the man remains an enigma until the end. Grant can do both charm and the lurking darkness beneath to perfection, but what he's been less called for to do during his career is vulnerability or raw emotion, and this part is no exception. This version of Thorpe is no tragic hero, someone who could have done great things if he hadn't stumbled down a dark path following one misstep. He is a man with a sliver of ice in his heart acting in character. It's not a complete hatchet-job, which makes it all the more damaging. Thorpe clearly cared about his family, and every clip we see of a political speech (there's not that many, though) makes quite a lot of sense. Also, Norman's no saint, and you can understand why his ex feels sorely tried at times. Still, you're left thinking that England had a lucky escape.      

Davies keeps his own hobby-horses admirably at bay. There's the odd line that sounds more like him than the characters, as when Norman complains about "men like him" not being in the history books (but what do I know? That could be direct quote). It's also a bit remarkable that just about every male character seems to have at least tried on sleeping with men, and bisexuality isn't really considered as a plausible explanation to playing both sides, unless the fellow concerned would otherwise be labelled heterosexual. But we're spared ranting, and Davies even uses his own experiences (or what feels like his own experiences) to touching effect. Not that he was around the gay scene, or lack of it, at the same time as Jeremy Thorpe, but he can clearly relate to it's being a jungle out there.

I'm glad I got round to watching A Very English Scandal. Like one of its protagonists, it can be a bit chilly at times. However, if RTD hits his stride again and produces anything nearly as good in the upcoming season of Doctor Who, I will be a very happy bunny.

Captain America: Brave New World: Inoffensive popcorn fare

I wasn't sure I'd have enough to say about Captain America: Brave New World to be able to blog about it, but I'll give it a try. For one, it was the first Marvel movie I actually watched at the cinema instead of on TV, and it was worth it. Not just for the big screen experience, but for the nerdy content it unlocks on YouTube – I could watch videos not only about the film itself but about predictions for the MCU's future without getting anything spoiled. I've made a deal with my bladder, though: I will watch MCU movies in the cinema in future, but I'll not stick around for the post-credit scenes if my need is too great. This time, there was no problem (although the post-credit scene was underwhelming).

How was the film itself, then? Well... it's by no means an MCU highlight. I thought the script was weak: the banter between Sam Wilson, the newish Captain America, his new young sidekick Joaquin Torres and the grizzled veteran Isaiah Bradley was leaden; the story was uncompelling at times; and then there were lines like "Any word from Betty, my daughter?". Harrison Ford committed himself to the role of newly-elected President Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross, but neither he nor anyone else was given a lot to work with. Tim Blake Nelson struggled as the main villain (unlike many others, I didn't hate the augmented-brain design), but he had too much motive and too little menace. He might have worked better as a creepy nerd villain rather than an intimidating mastermind.

In spite of all this, not gonna lie, I had a good time. Maybe I was helped by my low expectations. I was not a fan of Falcon and the Winter Soldier with its preachiness, its dwelling on Sam's unnecessary hang-ups and its leniency towards the ghastly terror teen Karli Morgenthau. With the same people involved in the film, I had some fears that were not alleviated by trailer clips like Ross thundering to Sam: "You're not Steve Rogers" and Sam replying cockily "You're right, Sir, I'm not". Yeah, no reason to sound so pleased about that, Sam.

I may have missed it, but I think Sam's cocky reply was cut from the actual film. If I'm not dreaming this, it's significant for the film as a whole. It has the feel of a film that may have been preachy once, but where all the potentially preachy bits have been cut out. If this is a result of the supposedly extensive re-shoots, I can only applaud it. Sam himself is a sweetie, and his compassion and ability to see the best in people make him a good pick for Steve's successor. Much as I love Bucky, Steve made the right call: Captain America needs to be someone not quite as morally flexible as the former Winter Soldier.

The action parts of the film were thrilling enough, though sometimes giggle-inducingly over-the-top (and that's better than being boring). There are standout performances from Ford and from Carl Lumbly as Isaiah. I didn't care for Isaiah's storyline in Falcon and the Winter Soldier where he had to be a symbol of The Victims of America's Past Wrongdoings; however, as simply an old man who has spent decades wrongfully imprisoned and is terrified of going back to jail, he is very moving. All in all, Captain America: Brave New World is a good-enough popcorn flick, worth seeing once, which manages to be just a little bit heartwarming, too.

It raises one question, though: can a film perhaps be too inoffensive, especially when it's labelled a "political thriller"? Just as it's trying really hard not to be too preachy, it's trying just as hard not to have any bearing on real-life politics at all. "Thunderbolt" Ross may be an oldie, and he may turn into a rage monster towards the end, but there are no obvious resemblances between him and any recent American presidents. His main goal is to broker a treaty with Japan which will give them equal access to an extremely valuable mineral. I mean, if only. 

The truncated role of Ross's Chief of Security Ruth Bat-Seraph is another example of the film taking no risks. Her links to Mossad from the comics have been cut, and now she's simply a former Black Widow, which makes no sense seeing how unwilling she is to believe in the villain's mind control (which was exactly what happened to the Black Widows). Making Ruth comic-accurate would have been offensive to some; cutting her out completely after announcing her presence in the film would have been offensive to others; and so she's stuck in the middle as a character with very little significance to the plot.

For me, it's a question of being careful what I wish for. For years, I have been complaining about heavy-handed politics making its way into popular entertainment, and I stand by that. Even when I agree with the views expressed in various films or TV shows (it does happen), they're hammered home in such an annoying way that I start to feel some sympathy for the opposing point of view. By and large, I do prefer Captain America: Brave New World-style tiptoeing to rolling my eyes over ill-expressed political grandstanding. But the price of inoffensiveness may, in some cases, be a little blandness.

So the upper-class cad is the hero? OK, then

I'm in an intense escapism period book-wise, which explains why there will be a lot of TV and film posts in a row. I've already milked authors like Stephanie Garber and Emily Henry for their blog worth, and don't have that much to add, except a strong recommendation to read them if you want to retreat to a happy book place (and like the genres they're writing in – that's pretty crucial). To find the same kind of escapism on TV, however, is proving surprisingly hard.

All right, that's a forced transition, as I watched the British drama/soap Rivals on Disney Plus last year and not just now. Nevertheless, it is the kind of series you are supposed to watch in an escapist mood. It's based on one of the "bonkbusters" penned by Dame Jilly Cooper, who seems beguilingly jolly. That the fictional county her stories take place in is called "Rutshire" says a lot. What's more, the series appears to be faithful to the spirit of the author: both the setting and the characters' outlook have a near-authentic Eighties feel. This should be right up my alley. But it isn't, quite.

To be honest, I thought it dragged a bit. At the same time, it is well-acted, and every time I was close to giving up a new plot development happened that had me thinking "OK, I want to see how this plays out". But I did spend lot of time wondering why I didn't get more into the series. Now, afterwards, I also wonder: if this show wasn't for me, then who is it for?

Quite a lot of people, it turns out. Rivals is a hit, and I've heard people I'd have thought would have minded the overall positive way upper-class stud Rupert Campbell-Black is depicted (I'll come back to that) praising its watchability. So what is holding me back from joining more wholeheartedly in the fun?

Could it be my bourgeois outlook? It's a strong possibility. I assumed, at the start of the series, that Campbell-Black would be seen as a bad guy, albeit possibly a redeemable one. I actually started Riders by Jilly Cooper once but didn't persevere, and in that novel, I got the impression that Campbell-Black was the villain (though the author clearly shared his pro-hunting stance). In Rivals, though, it didn't take long to figure out that in the rivalry between Campbell-Black and local media mogul Lord Baddingham, we are supposed to side with the former.

Now, I can find it endearing when the English gentry catches a break in the world of TV entertainment. It doesn't happen that often – caricatures of British poshos abound in dramas like Midsomer Murders, Morse and its spinoffs, and many, many others. When Downton Abbey dared to portray the Crawleys as decent people (on the whole), critics sneered. So in a way, I admire Dame Jilly for standing up for the toffs and not giving a whistle for street cred. At the same time, I am solidly middle-class myself, and if there's a fight between a nob and an upstart, I want to be able to side with the upstart.

That's hardly possible here, though, as Baddingham (the upstart in this scenario) is a thoroughly bad lot, and not in an alluring way. It's amazing the way David Tennant can turn off his considerable charm like a tap as Baddingham. There's a brief flash of Doctorish charisma as he's trying to persuade his mistress to go to Spain with him, and an equally brief flicker of vulnerability when he confronts said mistress with a particularly heinous betrayal. But otherwise, Tennant as Baddingham is in continuous creep mode.

So is the series snobbish, then? Well, it tries not to be. It does its best to give us truculent middle-classers reasons to dislike Baddingham that have nothing to do with his modest beginnings. Look how careless he is with his employees. Look at his brusqueness and his prejudices. Look how he puts professionalism aside for petty vengeance. Above all, look how little he appreciates his loyal and supportive wife.  Also, Baddingham finds himself at odds with the hard-hitting left-leaning journalist Declan O'Hara and the successful but teddy-bearish businessman Freddie Jones – just in case we were starting to suspect that his lack of poshness is an issue.

I know I shouldn't be too sniffy about obvious manipulativeness from a show like this, but I can't help finding it a bit tiresome. Another example is how the audience is bludgeoned into hoping Freddie and romance writer Lizzie Vereker (both married) will finally get it off. Lizzie's husband James is the most parodically one-dimensional bad hubby you can imagine. He ignores her. He puts her down. He cheats on her, flagrantly. He straight up recoils when she wants to rekindle their relationship. "Why don't you just divorce the wanker?" Campbell-Black asks, and that is certainly the question.

While I didn't find Rivals to be quite the fizzing champagne bottle of a show I'd hoped, many others did, so it's worth trying out for a good time (be warned, though: there's a jarringly serious rape story right in the middle). Also, I'll be checking out a possible season two, hoping to finally get a handle on Baddingham's mistress Cameron Cook whose motives are a mystery to me – which is welcome in a story where not many things remain mysterious. But Rupert Campbell-Black? Not my type.