The fourth and final season of The Tudors (On Demand, Showtime, DISH 318) has once again moved Henry VIII offstage and into the history books. Best known for whacking the heads off various wives, Henry briefly lived again, Showtime style.
Fare thee well, The Tudors, which was, in true Showtime tradition, little more than softcore porn with chamber pots. And yet, did this often appalled history minor watch it? Yes indeedy. I’m catching up on every single episode, wall-to-wall, for tiara and hairpiece advice. I do not listen to the painful dialogue (“How did it go in court today?”) I stare at the jewels dripping from the ladies’ hotrolled locks and wonder if I can get away with a French hood and full veil in 2010 Alabama. (Early evidence suggests not.) This show was glorious hair ornament porn.
It’s a shame that The Tudors was content to concern itself only with the family’s most (in)famous member. These were people who chopped off heads and conquered lands well into the next century, and Henry’s forebearers were no model citizens. By falling into the “Look! It’s yet another Anne Boleyn on yet another scaffolding!” trap, The Tudors cheated itself and its viewers out of introducing Americans to the also-salacious activities of previous generations.
For the most part, it was captivating to watch the makeup artists doo their level best to fat-ify Jonathan Rhys Meyers, who played the lead Tudor. Being a man, his hair was far less interesting than the wife parade’s, but Meyers also represents a missed opportunity: The producers somehow managed write around the considerable girth of Henry VIII.
Over four seasons he lurched from pissy fit to pissy fit, bedding the nearest available (and, often, non-available) woman who happened by his throne room. The viewer never felt the need to root for him, to understand his motivations or what drew his followers to him. By most period accounts, Henry VIII wasn’t just physically powerful and athletic in his youth; he was charismatic and intelligent. But all we were ever shown was yelling and screwing, which made it difficult to understand why Anne Boleyn blessed his name as she stood about to die on his orders, or why Catherine of Aragon was so stubbornly faithful to not just the marriage, but the man himself.
Oh well. Take the French hoods and run.
