Bewildered thoughts on The Diplomat season two

The Netflix series The Diplomat should make for a good blog subject when you are recovering from a cold. Because it is, in many respects, like a fever dream.

My greatest difficulty will be to pinpoint my biggest questions about the series. I think I'll settle for two: did the different writers of the series even know what the others were planning to put in it plot-wise? And what kind of show is The Diplomat even trying to be? I have a third big question which is more personal – Why am I more OK with the bizarre plot twist introduced at the end of season two than the bizarre plot twist introduced in season one, which had me fuming? – but I don't think I can get into that too much without being spoilery. Also, my reactions are possibly not as mysterious as all that.

To start from the beginning of the second season, three whole episodes seemed to confirm the aforementioned season one plot twist. As Kate Wyler, the US ambassador in Great Britain, put forward her wild theory as to who was really responsible for the bombing of a British ship, she wasn't seriously called into question by her aides and advisors, who should have known better. Instead, they bought into it all, and nervous steps were taken in order to outfox a very unlikely Big Bad. What's worse, the writing seemed to have lost its zing, and the characters tried one's patience, especially Kate and her right hand man Stuart. I mean, I know Stuart survived a car bomb and lost a valued colleague. Still, did he have to be so whiny?

To be honest, I only stuck with the series so I could have the pleasure of rubbishing it later (and spoiling everything). But then, episode four came along and something happened. The zing was back. Stuart stopped being irritating and became quite likeable again, especially when dealing ineptly with his exasperated ex Eidra. We were given some vital information about the bombing of the ship which made the reasons behind it just a grain more plausible. And then, finally, the series back-tracked from previous idiocies. In episode five Allison Janney turned up as a highly competent but hard-ball-playing US Vice President, and things were definitely back on track.

So what happened there? The second season had the opposite trajectory from the first for me: there I was hooked first, disgruntled later, while here I was close to giving up, then hooked in again. It feels as if there are two sets of writers wanting to tell different stories. And that doesn't just go for the political shenanigans. At the end of season one, you had the feeling that we were supposed to root for Kate ditching her wild card husband Hal and hooking up with Austin Dennison, the British Foreign Secretary. But as the ground shifted in season two, Dennison didn't exactly turn out to be someone you could steal horses with (to use a German expression). I was glad, as I thought Dennison was stiff and humourless. Also, Hal is played by Rufus Sewell, so obviously I reckoned Kate should stick with him.

At the very least, I would guess that the writers of The Diplomat did not have the whole plot thought out beforehand. For example, Kate's dithering in the last episodes on whether she should try for the position of Vice President or not feels like a way for the writers to keep their options open. Which leads me to question number two: what kind of show is this? What's the right frame of mind to watch it (if you want to watch it at all)?

Where I went wrong at first was to regard The Diplomat as a fairly ambitious political drama – not as good as The West Wing, naturally, but at least created with the same kind of viewership in mind. But The Diplomat is not even in the same genre as The West Wing. The politics can be absurd, because the politics is not the main concern of the story. It's only there to provide an excuse for dramatic set pieces and character conflict. The Diplomat is less a political thriller, and more a soap opera with some thriller aspects. If you can accept that it bears no hint of a resemblance to how British or American politics work in real life, you can still have fun with it. Although I'm very much afraid Hal will turn out to be the ultimate bad guy in yet another twist somewhere further down the line. (How? I don't know. It's a mystery.)

Also, am I the only one who wouldn't be altogether averse to a gung-ho British PM like Nicol Trowbridge right about now? Just me? OK.

The final Wolf Hall

There must be an end to milking Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall trilogy for blog posts. Even if I finally actually read The Mirror and the Light, instead of just listening to it as an audiobook, I can't possibly have more to say about Mantel's version of Thomas Cromwell after having blogged about Wolf Hall the novel – twice; Bring Up the Bodies – twice; the first series of the TV adaptation of the trilogy; the aforementioned audiobook version of The Mirror and the Light and now, finally, the second series of the TV adaptation. I guess it goes to show that in spite of my gripes – and I've had plenty – I do find this story fascinating.

The second series of Wolf Hall leaves me with two questions I can't quite answer. One, can I recommend this series or not? And two, why don't I like this version of Thomas Cromwell more?

To start with question one, Wolf Hall the TV series has a sharp script, is often mesmerising and contains stellar acting, especially from Mark Rylance as Cromwell and Damian Lewis as Henry VIII but also from just about everyone else. This time around I was especially taken with Harry Melling's Wriothesley. In the novels, Wriothesley was so fox-like his treachery seemed like a foregone conclusion, especially as Cromwell and co. kept jokingly referring to him as "Call Me Risley" or just "Call Me", even to his face. (My theory is that his name is actually pronounced Risley, and he simply tried to convey it in a polite manner.) Melling's Wriothesley, by contrast, suffers pure agony over his own betrayal. That's just one example of the acting quality on offer. I was properly hooked during both the first and last episode of the series, and even got a bit teary as Cromwell in his final speech apologised to his "master", meaning not Henry, as the crowd thought, but the late Cardinal Wolsey.

However, there were other times when the show's sedate pace got me restless. One Swedish journalist wondered, entertainingly, why she had spent twelve hours of her life (counting both series and all twelve episodes of Wolf Hall) watching Cromwell walking from one room to another between dialogues and thoughtful musings. "What's so magnetic about this?" she asked, and I know what she means. I felt the magnetism too, often enough – but not all the time. Sometimes, I just felt impatient with the high-brow-ness of it all. I have principal objections to TV drama that gives itself airs, and this series does. It reminds me most of all of a gigantic filmed play (though it doesn't come off quite as dusty as filmed plays tend to do).

In the end, though, I think I have to recommend the series, with reservations. It does tell an intriguing story with the help of first-class actors. What it doesn't manage to do, even with the help of Rylance's expressive face, is help me understand what Cromwell – the historical or the fictional version – is all about.   

Which leads me to question number two. Why don't I like Mantel's Cromwell more? The answer appears simple enough on the surface: because he's not a charismatic villain in this story. How can a Cromwell who always claims to do the right thing, and often believes it too, hope to compare in my villain-loving eyes to the charms of Danny Webb's weaselly courtier, or James Frain's Catholic-hating powerbroker? It's true that the smugness of Rylance's Cromwell riles me. Smugness is usually the fault of the other guys – the self-righteous ones, the heroes. A great villain can get away with anything, but you have to be a truly A-grade villain (better than Cromwell, certainly) to get away with self-righteousness.

But I think it goes deeper than that. After all three books and two series of television, I'm still not sure I know what makes Mantel's Cromwell tick. Mantel makes much of his devotion to Wolsey, but his actions don't always bear this supposed loyalty out. Yes, he punishes the Cardinal's lesser enemies, but he becomes quite pally with Suffolk, who filched some of Wolsey's land, and keeps serving Henry, who caused Wolsey's fall in the first place. There's even a scene in The Mirror and the Light where Cromwell is suddenly stricken with doubt as to whether he let his Cardinal down at the end. Whoa, buddy. Firstly, you should know whether you were false or not. Secondly, in this version of events, you killed people for being nasty to your beloved Cardinal. If there was any kind of doubt in your mind as to your own actions towards Wolsey, you should maybe have shown more generosity towards others.   

It doesn't help that I feel a certain disconnect between Mantel's Cromwell and the historical Cromwell who, I can't help suspecting, was probably a lot more straightforward. Did the real Cromwell ever give a monkey's about Wolsey? I'm not entirely convinced. 

Maybe, though, this ambiguousness is actually partly why the Wolf Hall trilogy fascinates me. On two levels, it's about achieving great things, but not what you set out to do. Cromwell (as Mantel describes him) wants to be a good servant to Wolsey and to facilitate religious reform; he achieves neither. Mantel, presumably, wanted to get under Thomas Cromwell's skin, but doesn't quite get there. However, it can be gripping to see them try.