13 hours ago
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Inflate thy balloons and unsheathe thy Party Rings, for here is Chief of War (Apple TV+) to remind us of the joy of the scowling historical epic. Here too, almost, is Battle of Hastings belter King & Conqueror (BBC, August). And Spartacus: House of Ashur (Starz, this winter). Also in the period-specific pipeline are second series for Disney+’s brilliant Shogun and Amazon Prime’s terrible House of David.
Historical epics, it would not be unreasonable to say, are everywhere.
But which are the best and which should be catapulted, screaming, across a poorly rendered CGI battlefield? Given their abundance, some arbitrary judging criteria is clearly in order. Hence: no “fantasy” nonsense (ie Game of Thrones) and nothing set after the early 1800s, the latter on the grounds that a) there are too many of the sods and b) Julian “Downton Bloody Abbey” Fellowes has effectively tucked the era under his top hat and run off with it while honking like an overprivileged goose.
Let battle commenceth…
The Best
Chief of War (2025)
A barrel-chested wodge of Big History in which mountainous creator and co-writer Jason Momoa thunders through the based-on-true-events that led to the late 18th century unification and, ultimately, colonisation of his native Hawaii. And it’s brilliant; from its predominantly Polynesian cast to the sense of doom that swirls perpetually around the scenic foothills of Mount Momoa. It may lean a touch too heavily on extended, subtitled brawls in which there is much [grunting], but this is heartfelt storytelling; as muscular and sincere as its loinclothed protagonist.
Vikings (2013-20)
Startlingly brutal middle ages od(in)yssey in which mud-caked peasants duck from the flailing mace of progress/death and Norsemen with calves like bowling balls stagger across fjords, their complexions suggesting they may not be getting their five a day. There are the obligatory fireside frottageings, but this is clever stuff, with complex characters, an atmosphere of thunderously oppressive gloom and dialogue that does not make one long to inter oneself, sobbing, in a flaming longship.
Shōgun (2024-)
The second adaptation of James Clavell’s 1,100-page clomp through the late Sengoku period of feudal Japan, this US-produced saga leaves its beloved 1980 predecessor spluttering in its backwash, the latter’s once sacrosanct USP (Richard Chamberlain blinking expressionlessly in a kimono) unable to compete with the former’s rich, knotty script, riveting characterisation and steadfast attention to historical detail. Cue stoic samurai, scurvy-ridden sailors and preoccupied warlords in a succession of exquisitely indifferent terrains and everyone else sprinting for cover as the whole shebang is (justly) pelted with Emmys.
I, Claudius (1976)
Yes, the pace is slow, the sets perfunctory and the wigs apparently assembled from the contents of a vacuum cleaner. But still, 50 years on, the BBC’s adaptation of Robert Graves’ novels on the bastardry of the early Roman empire remains one of TV’s finest achievements, with an unapologetically adult script and magnificent, pillar-rattling performances from John Hurt, Siân Phillips and Derek Jacobi, the last assisted by prosthetic makeup and a false nose that could dislodge the cobwebs from a triumphal arch.
Wolf Hall (2015 and 2024)
An object lesson, here, in how to deliver prestige historical drama without recourse to bums or bombast. Instead, there are exquisitely layered performances (Damian Lewis, Jonathan Pryce), quiet, adult explorations of difficult, adult things (grief, ageing) and many, many candlelit silences into which Mark Rylance’s Thomas Cromwell glides, his expression, as always, that of a ferret saddened by developments in France. A monumental achievement, obviously, and in director Peter Kosminsksy and scriptwriter Peter Straughan’s hands, a near-perfect adaptation of Hilary Mantel’s three-piece masterpiece.
The Worst
The Borgias (2011-13)
Rome, 1492, and the Vatican is besieged by filth as director/co-creator Neil Jordan takes a stiff quill to non-secular skulduggery. Cue: tumescent priests, pouting strumpets and a never-wearier Jeremy Irons as Pope Shagger VI. Here, historical integrity is something to be bent over and humped, unconvincingly, behind a net curtain. The script? Pfft. The acting? Tsk. The plot? Possibly, although it’s tricky to concentrate on the dynastic machinations of 15th century Italy when Irons in a mitre keeps shouting “WHORE”.
The Cleopatras (1983)
A catastrophic attempt by the BBC to replicate the success of I, Claudius by squeezing Grade II-listed hams into togas and forcing them to SHOUT at punishing length about the PTOLEMAIC DYNASTY in what appears to be an abandoned REGIONAL LEISURE CENTRE. The upshot? Tedium. Plus? Bald caps, flagrant boobery, Richard Griffiths “working” a “smoky eye”, the line “Let’s get out of Egypt!” and trembling extras gulping in horror as the plot catapults yet another flaming ball of exposition at the studio floor.
Spartacus (2010-13)
Manacled jocks go loincloth to loincloth in a US production comprised almost entirely of buttocks. There is, occasionally, other stuff: blood, knockers, airborne viscera, Americans in sandals decapitating other Americans while shouting “ass”, some “plot” or other involving revenge, John Hannah (as dastardly slave trader Batiatus) bellowing “BY JUPITER’S COCK!” at 30-second intervals etc. But it is mainly buttocks. Watch it on fast-forward and it’s like being shot in the face by a pump-action bum-gun.
The Musketeers (2014-16)
One, two, swashbuckle my shoe: abject “international co-production” tosh here from the Beeb as Alexandre Dumas’s novels are reimagined for whichever generation it is that is supposed to be interested in this sort of thing. And lo, much adolescent tomfoolery doth ensue, with PG-rated punch-ups, tiresome hunks smirking in pleather and dialogue of the “Things just got complicated!” genus. The result? Hollycloaks. Peter Capaldi does his best as Cardinal Richelieu but it would take more than thigh boots and nostril-flaring to lighten this particular load.
The Tudors (2007-10)
Verily, my liege, this idiot Canadian-Irish co-production does dance a merry jig upon the very concept of historical accuracy, with its Irish Henry VIII (Jonathan Rhys Meyers), its ripped courtiers and Joss Stone as Anne of Cleves. There is the occasional grudging nod to Actual Historical Stuff (the Reformation, wives etc). But it’s mostly just Henry banging his way around Tudor England, his bum cheeks jack-hammering with such ferocity that they are little more than a meaty blur, like a deli counter viewed from the top deck of a speeding bus in the rain.
