Harlots: a bawdy romp with a dash of soap opera
‘It’s 1763, London is booming and one in five women makes a living selling sex.” So went the scene-setting caption at the start of Harlots (ITV Encore), a new drama about Georgian licentiousness. Yet, beneath the saucy trappings, this was a family drama. Samantha Morton was the standout performer, playing Margaret Wells, an indomitable madam grappling with the morals of prostituting her daughters – among them Jessica Brown Findlay, aka Downton Abbey’s Lady Sybil. What would the Dowager Countess say? In another part of the city, rival madam Lydia Quigley (Lesley Manville) thought she was a cut above because her girls played pianoforte and spoke French.
The makers of Harlots had clearly been watching heavily stylised historical series such as Peaky Blinders and Taboo, borrowing their trick of using slo-mo and a modern soundtrack to make it resemble a period pop video. In fact, the music was jarring – the frantic electronica was obtrusive rather than atmospheric. It was like watching proceedings from inside a hotel lift with piped muzak.
The sets looked expensively handsome, although the streets were suspiciously clean. Even the local urchins were peachy-cheeked. The production design needed more soot and smog, perhaps the odd chamberpot emptied out of a window. The bawdy romping strayed into spoof territory at times – a feeling exacerbated when Tim McInnerny, aka Lord Percy from Blackadder, popped up as a lascivious aristocrat.
Harlots was written by a woman (Moira Buffini), directed by a woman (Coky Giedroyc) and the cast’s headline names were all women. And so it was disappointing that the plentiful flesh on show was all female, bar some lingering shots of baronet George Howard’s (Hugh Skinner) bare buttocks.
Still, a feminist subtext emerged through the characterisation. Males were hypocrites or creeps. Women fought for their freedom. “Men don’t respect wives, they respect property,” declared Wells. “Money is women’s only power in this world.”
It was soapily plotted and snappily written (one miser was “tight as a nun’s nip”) but lacked depth. It was solid enough but with this estimable cast, it felt like a missed opportunity to make something more substantial.
Harlots was Versailles via Soho or Celebrity Big Brothel. Shame it’s hidden away on ITV Encore rather than on the main channel, where it would find a wider audience. Presumably it’s too rude for terrestrial.
Dorset whodunit Broadchurch (ITV) entered its home stretch and we’re no nearer to knowing who raped Trish (Julie Hesmondhalgh). However, it seems there’s a serial predator at large, with at least one more victim, and possibly two. This series is coming to the boil beautifully.
Telesales rep Laura Benson (an affecting performance from Kelly Gough) had been attacked in similar circumstances to Trish two years ago but had only now come forward. “I’d had a lot to drink and was walking home at 3am in a short skirt,” she said. “I know how women like me get treated.” “Not by us,” vowed DI Alec Hardy (David Tennant, whose facial expressions are getting grimmer by the week).
Cracks opened up in the loveless marriage of local it-couple Jim and Cath Atwood (Mark Bazeley and the outstanding Sarah Parish) following the revelation that Jim had slept with Trish on the morning of his wife’s 50th birthday bash. Hell hath no fury like a woman whose party has been pooped.
Worrying links were uncovered between both attacks and an existing suspect: convicted sex offender Aaron Mayford (a creepy turn from Jim Howick). “Bit lazy, isn’t it?” he sneered, like an evil David Brent. “Woman gets raped. You pull in the local rapist.” But there were holes so big in his “I was fishing alone all night” alibi, mackerel could swim through them.
Meanwhile, bereaved father Mark Latimer (Andrew Buchan) packed a hammer and a Stanley knife in his holdall before driving up to Liverpool to wreak revenge on his son’s killer. This attempt to interweave the debut series with this third and final one was the only false note.
With just three episodes to go, let’s hope writer Chris Chibnall can keep his narrative plates spinning long enough to deliver a nail-biting finale on Easter Monday.