“The Borgias couldn’t give a stuffed fig about sense”

If Camelot was anything to go by the actual series will fail to match the promise of the review and will be cancelled after one season.  Until then enjoy another epic review, this time of The Borgias, by Sarah Dempster at the Guardian’s TV blog.

Created by director Neil Jordan, The Borgias is a potboiler in the (throbbing, purple) vein of The Tudors and Camelot. Stuffed to the chancel with priests, bums, greed, shouting, bribery, incest, poisonings and knockers, the nine-part Hungary-Ireland-Canada co-production takes the story of the notorious Renaissance dynasty, then shakes it by its ankles until its brain falls out.

The plot, then: Rome, 1492, and the Vatican is besieged by bastards keen to divest the dastardly Pope Alexander VI (formerly Rodrigo Borgia) of his enormous mitre. Glum new pontiff (a never-wearier Jeremy Irons) engages in bouts of melancholic sadomasochism with a naked strumpet (“WHIP ME, MY LORD”), while putatively hunky son Cesare (François Arnaud) swaggers between clandestine powwows with shadowy assassins and heavy flirting sessions with vexing sister Lucrezia (Holliday Grainger), a whey-faced flibbertigibbet prone to flights of insufferable adolescent fancy (“I want a unicorn.”)

Read the whole thing.  Heh.

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