Hats off to the campest show on television

Poldark BBC One, Sunday Sky Atlantic, Thursday

as Aidan Turner arranged for a “no torso” clause to be slipped into his

contract? The 33 year-old leading man, who has a physique that seems to have been wrought in a Falmouth foundry, kept his shirt on for the whole of the first episode. Certainly he looked manly as he went about such rugged tasks as thatching and pitching water, but it was cold comfort to the Aidan army who had waited six months for a spot of Sunday-night objectification.

It might have something to do with the fact that Ross Poldark is now seen as worse than a bounder, having forced himself on Elizabeth (Heida Reed) at the end of the last series. Allowing the audience to lust after such a brute is horribly problematic and so, here, we saw a low-key Ross, in a sort of domestic purdah with the previously wild-hearted Demelza (Eleanor Tomlinson). He did, however, have a showdown with the heavily pregnant Elizabeth as she nearly came a cropper, courtesy of a capricious mare. Still, she was ultimately the one in control. “Would you rather I just abandoned you?” he asked, peeved that she was able to steady herself.

“Because that has never happened before,” came the tart reply. Zing!

Actually, I think Poldark might be the campest thing on television. Sour old Aunt Agatha (Caroline Blakiston) kept muttering words of sepulchral portent as a black moon glowered over the Cornish cliffs and Elizabeth went into an early labour. “Cursed he be!” she cried, as everyone looked up at the sky in an overwrought manner.

Meanwhile, Jack Farthing’s George Warleggan, the arriviste banker and husband of Elizabeth, hissed at his many enemies with all the subtlety of Blofeld squaring up to Sean Connery’s Bond. “You would do well not to displease me,” he purred. The enigmatic nature of George’s professional duties intrigued me nearly as much as the notice for Warleggan Bank whose signwriters possessed an extraordinarily sound grasp of 21st-century typography.

Anyway, Elizabeth’s baby was born healthy, although the identity of the father – is it a Poldark or a Warleggan? – will remain a mystery until the boy is old enough to show off either rock-hard abs or a talent for assessing lending risks. What we do know, however, is that he is to be christened Valentine, thus ensuring a lifetime of bullying.

Poldark is what those in the media describe as a “ratings juggernaut”, regularly attracting more than 5 million viewers. ITV’s answer was to commission a drama which opened with a group of friends in a Highland town going curling. I don’t think this is the best way to steal viewers, as anyone who has ever sat through the Winter Olympics will know. Still, which focused on a rampaging serial killer in a small, close-knit community, was not without its moments. Stephen Brady’s drama had a whiff of Grand Guignol about it. Hungry wolves roamed the quiet streets by night; a Scots guard with locked-in syndrome processed the words and actions of those who appeared at his bedside; a creepy college lecturer quoted Carl Jung at his students for no discernible reason (unless he was just showing off).

Into this morass of whimsy stomped Siobhan Finneran’s DCI Lauren Quigley after the mangled corpse of the local piano teacher was found at the bottom of a cliff. Quigley, a professional Northerner, had no truck with the aesthetic beauty that surrounded her. “Nature,” she declared, “bores the living s--- out of me.”

I should point out that the loch of the title refers to Loch Ness, and of course, the mythical monster acts as a metaphor for the real one who is dismembering the locals. It’s not subtle, but it’s not meant to be. And I have to disagree with DCI Quigley – the local landscape made my spirit soar.

Julia Stiles and the

cast spoke their lines as if they were on Mogadon

Iwas hoping that Riviera might have a similar effect. Think Grace Kelly in a Sunbeam Alpine on the Promenade des Anglais with the warm breeze blowing through her hair. In fact, this new drama by Neil Jordan and John Banville was a nasty little thriller featuring charred bodies, self-harm and flickers of nudity.

It starred Julia Stiles as Georgina, a spoilt American socialite, picking up pieces of overpriced art while her shady husband, Constantine (Anthony LaPaglia), brokered deals with hammy oligarchs.

When Constantine was blown up on a yacht, Georgina had to face the fact that her husband had been a wrong ’un who kept ladies of the night in his Monaco apartment.

Of course, Riviera looked fabulous, with a cast of deeply unhappy characters making languid gestures in palatial villas with expensive views. But the plot felt paper thin, which is