Labyrinth is silly but enjoyable cobblers
Channel 4's new medieval romp is all about bums and historical misrepresentation
France, 1209, and the doughty fiefdom of Carcassonne is besieged by bastards. "They seek the secret of the Grail," gasps carbuncular nobleman Bertrand, as swarms of rhubarbing crusaders prepare to storm his ramparts. Daughter Alaïs (Jessica Brown Findlay) is confused. "The Holy Grail?" she whispers, slowly. "The cup that Christ drank from on the night of the Last Supper?" "Yes," replies Papa, Frenchly. "And we must defend it (thundering cellos; extreme close up of period-specific scowl) " … WITH OUR LIVES."
Inflate thy balloons and unsheathe thy mint Viscounts, for here isLabyrinth (Saturday, 9pm, Channel 4) to remind us of the unique joy of the shonkily realised international costume epic. A two-part German-South African co-production based on the bestselling Kate Mosse novel, it's a window-rattling potboiler bubbling with ancient religious conspiracies, comely medieval wenches, comely 21st-century academics, fogbanks of swirly past-times skulduggery, evil pharmaceutical CEOs in 10 denier tights, priapic chevaliers and, verily, a script that does dance a merry jig upon the very phizog of credibility. It is, 'ow you say, cobblers.
The plot/s, then: when beautiful PhD graduate Alice Tanner (Vanessa Kirby, far better than she needs to be) discovers an ancient, labyrinth-symbol ring in a French cave, she is plunged into a mysterious netherverse of car chases, murder and wobbly historical hallucinations. Meanwhile, in a (seemingly) parallel story, medieval dullard Alaïs must protect the (apparently) same ring from gnashing crusaders and conniving sister Oriane, who is also banging Alaïs's expressionless husband. Could it all have something to do with reincarnation? Let us ponder this slowly over four hours including ad breaks.
As with previous cape-based international co-productions (The Borgias, Camelot, The Pillars Of The Earth et al), there is beaucoup nudity. And breasts. And the sort of soft-focus heritage boffing scenes during which there is clearly at least a metre separating boffer and boffee's woohoos. There are buttocks everywhere. Watch it on fast-forward and it's like being shot in the face by a pump-action bum-gun.
Everything is spelled out in 900pt HOPE YOU'RE GETTING ALL THIS AT THE BACK font. The goodies wear white linen and the baddies appear to have fallen out of a box of Guess Who?: Baddies Edition. One character has a face like a side of pork and carries a blowtorch. Another is introduced with the words "They call you the toughest bitch in the pharmaceutical business."
"Gadzooks", you think, as you watch Oriane having shouting backwards sex next to a startled wolfhound, "don't let this magnificent tosh degenerate into some sort of proper drama with issues and facts and stuff." And it doesn't. Instead, it gets dafter. While the crusaders litter the countryside with steaming piles of barbecued heretics, there's some modern Durr Vinci Code whiffle involving hooded business types and clandestine sacrifices conducted in the name of "ze inheritors of ze Grail". On it clomps, chainmail leggings round its ankles, firing catapults of flaming exposition at every surface as viewers scatter like screaming ants. Such is the innate astonishingness of a drama in which historical integrity is hewn from Lego and logic is something to be bummed by one's brother-in-law behind a gossamer curtain (Ye Terry's Fabrics, £3.89 a yarde).
But then, nobody turns up at these sorts of bashes expecting convincing character development or a cohesive narrative arc. It is not Utopia. It's not even Mayday. One turns up for bums, rampant historical misrepresentation and a man in a wig roaring "spiritus sanctus" in a 13th-century CGI inferno.
Abandon thy brain, leave thy chainmail leggings at the door and, as Oriane bellows during one particularly vigorous bumming session, "LET YOURSELF GOOOO".
