The derailing of Ross

Oh dear. Spoke to soon, didn't I? Here I was, thinking that Ross Poldark showed healthy signs of self-awareness and that he didn't seem too enamoured of his own hero status. Well, not for long. Before the first series was done, he had committed the lethal double-fault which heroes should avoid at all costs: he loudly and repeatedly declared his own moral superiority, then went on to do something ethically indefensible without showing the slightest trace of remorse.

The notion of being the People's Friend was always going to be at the bottom of most annoying Ross behaviour. This is one area where he makes no bones about thinking himself more admirable than others - Gorgeous George and uncle, naturally, but also other members of the upper-middle class and gentry. As soon as one of Ross's rustic pals is in danger, his judgment seems to go out of the window. The first time he stoops to moral grandstanding is when he tries to get Jim, a childhood friend and picturesquely poor, off the charge of poaching. The only trouble is, Jim's guilty, and what's more, a repeat offender. Ross guilt-trips the court to bring in the sentence of two years' imprisonment - this for a crime that could lead to either hanging or transportation. But Ross is not satisfied: Jim's lungs are weak, he will surely die, the judges are monsters. Afterwards, he realises briefly that his thundering sermonising to the judges may not have been the best way to win hearts and minds, and that he would have served Jim better if he had been civil. However, his anger rises again when Jim does die, though not of his lungs but of a typhoid epidemic, and near the end of his sentence, which rather goes against the argument that he was physically unfit to go to prison in the first place. Nevertheless, Ross squarely blames the judges for Jim's demise, and spends a whole ball glowering at his unfeeling social equals.

Later, he helps another rustic friend to escape justice after he (the friend) has accidentally killed his wife. True, in this case Ross's protegé is at least innocent of the crime for which he would be tried, and it seems realistic that the court would have had difficulty in believing said innocence. Nevertheless, he wants to face up to what he's done himself, and it is surely a little worrying that Ross should feel it completely justified to floor soldiers in order for his mate to escape. One soldier is even shot (though not by Ross), and we never learn whether he made it.

So far, so normal, vaguely irritating hero behaviour. One can live with it. But at the same time, Ross becomes more and more self-righteous about his business plans, which at first were calculated only to make sure of his financial survival. Who knew that creating a cartel was such a fine and upstanding thing? And that anyone opposing this cartel's noble dealings - seeking to destroy it even - was an enemy of the community? That Ross's business interests should clash with George's is fair enough, but there's no need to be prissy about it. This is the mining industry, not a holy crusade.

And then it happens. Noble Ross, at his life's lowest ebb, looks out over the coastline. (Yes, his child's just died. Tragic, but not something even Ross can blame the Warleggans for.) He sees the Warleggans' ship, Queen Charlotte, run aground on her maiden voyage. There's a shipwreck. What does he do? Alert the authorities? No. Try to save the passengers and crew from drowning? Nope. Ignore the whole thing, because what has the Warleggans' precious ship to do with him? No, not even that. Joyously, he drums up all his rustic friends for a proper and thorough looting of the wreck. The loveable rustics cheer. Ross leers triumphantly. No-one lifts a finger to help the ship's crew or passengers. Only when less cuddly miners (because they don't work for Ross) gate-crash the wrecking does the smouldering hero call to mind that maybe he should "protect the survivors" - a phrase that indicates that more lives than that of the Warleggans' card-sharping cousin were lost while the Poldark contingent was having a party.

What is this? A man derailed by grief? Or are we seriously supposed to think that wreck-plundering's OK now? I was planning to use Poldark as a starting-point to another discussion on the well-worn theme of what heroes can afford to do, and why (unfairly, I admit) villains get away with much more. But I see I've used up too much space and energy with Ross-bashing instead, which I'm aware won't appeal to that many. In my defence, had I not had a more than expected favourable impression of the show's hero to start with (though his stand-offishness towards George is, of course, incomprehensible), I would have minded both the preachiness and the shocking looting business a whole lot less. It's what I always say: self-righteousness is a hero's worst enemy. Not only is it infuriating, it can lead to things ill done and done to others' harm.

A classic scene in innumerable dramas and melodramas is when the hero stands with a weapon in his hand in front of the villain, and the villain is baiting him to use it and kill him. Here, someone close to the hero (usually his love interest) intervenes: "Don't do it. You're better than him". It's not quite as simple as that. It's more a case of living up to your own hype. If the hero has claimed to be a better man than his enemy, then he is honour bound to prove it.