3 hours ago
5
‘I am charting a more venturesome course outside this society and in doing so I am being true to myself!” snorts Benedict Bridgerton (Luke Thompson), flaring his philandering nostrils as Lady Violet (Ruth Gemmell) looks on aghast. “But you still have two sisters who must marry and their fate depends on the family reputation,” she snaps, bustle crackling with maternal indignation. “This requires you to be a gentleman and not … a rake!”
At this point, when faced with such period-specific umbrage, it is customary for the casual viewer to insert her monocle and refer to her dog-eared copy of The Crashingly Inevitable Downton Abbey Comparisons Companion. And in many ways Bridgerton, bless its ridiculous socks, continues to invite such comparisons with open arms. There are costumes. There is a house. There are scones (pronounced “scones”, of course, not – heaven forfend – “scones”) and scrunch-faced toffs clearing their throats at news from the shires. There are scullery maids a-titterin’ an’ a-gossipin’ and footmen with calves like bowling balls plotting to relieve dignitaries of their britches. There is a string-heavy score that becomes aroused at times of narrative tension and actively tumescent at the sight of a poorly secured cravat.
But then the casual viewer watches a scene in which a mysterious society newcomer gasps “It is midnight!” into the face of her enraptured new beau before fleeing a masked ball to return to her secret job as a put-upon maid to her evil stepmother. Chastened, the casual viewer will close said Companion, remove her monocle and, as is customary, reach for the laudanum. This, unequivocally, is Bridgerton. Any similarities to Downton Abbey – and, indeed, any other earthly television series, living or dead – are purely superficial. The Regency romp, based on the series of eight novels by American author Julia Quinn, operates in a world of its own making. It is, as the fourth season makes only too plain, quite, quite bananas.
Here we are in Mayfair again, girding our bustle as the dandies and debutantes of le bon ton prepare for another season of balls, courtship, gossip and bums.
Francesca (Hannah Dodd) has returned with muscular husband Lord John (Victor Alli) from her home in the Scottish Highlands. Hovering in the wings is John’s spirited cousin, Michaela (Masali Baduza), who brings with her the promise of raised eyebrows and covert Sapphic sauce.
Meanwhile, having outed herself at the end the third series as enigmatic gossipmonger Lady Whistledown, the freshly married Penelope Bridgerton (Nicola Coughlan) now finds herself a favourite of Queen Charlotte (Golda Rosheuvel, her performance unapologetically pitched two-thirds of the way up a polystyrene beanstalk in Nantwich Civic Hall). “I tire of debutantes,” HRH tells Penelope at Lady Bridgerton’s inaugural masked ball. “Let us turn our attention this year instead to offering up a leading suitor to fire the competition!”
Enter the second son, who is, as previously stated, a rake and is thus not to be trusted. “Benedict Bridgerton!” shouts everyone at intervals of 30 seconds, shaking their fists at the debauchee as he scampers from the scene of his latest conquest like a dog with a string of sausages. Could his burgeoning “across the class divide” relationship with the plucky, Cinderella-like Sophie (Yerin Ha) tame him? Or will scheming stepmother Lady Araminta Gun (Katie Leung) apply a cold spoon to the lovebirds’ blossoming ardour?
While we ponder the possibilities, there is dialogue (“Like the Greeks your baton has been passed!”) and exposition – vast slabs of the stuff that sit in the middle of scenes and block our view of Queen Charlotte’s extraordinary wig (this season’s look: concussed terrier).
It’s all utterly bananas. But crucially, it is sincere about it – and its commitment is admirable. The costumes and sets are exquisite, the Cinderella stuff is startlingly free of cynicism and there is much tenderness in the romance department (fret not, bum fans: the banging continues apace). Though previously resistant to Bridgerton’s charms, I am now forced to concede that its puddingy mix of clunking soap and fairytale wish-fulfilment is … watchable. If not, indeed, quite difficult to resist. Curses.
Fetch another carafe of laudanum, mother. We shall go to the ball!
Bridgerton is on Netflix now
