Henry VII: Winter King (BBC2)
The Fall (BBC2) | iPlayer
Secrets of a Suffragette (C4) | 4oD
Up the Women (BBC4) | iPlayer
Playhouse Presents: Psychobitches (C4) | Sky Arts 1
If there is an afterlife, the most aggrieved, disenfranchised soul in it must be Henry VII. Or so it seemed after watching biographer Thomas Penn's documentary Henry VII: Winter King. What does a ruthless murderous "first Tudor" have to do to get noticed? All that plotting, defeating Richard III at the battle of Bosworth Field, leading to the latter being dug up centuries later, surrounded by confused motorists in Leicester saying: "I thought there was supposed to be a council car park around here?" and "I need to get to Boots before it shuts – can I park my Ford Fiesta on his desiccated clavicle?" All that killing and persecution and bloodthirsty clinging on to your throne, not to mention having to sport a blunt bobbed haircut that makes you resemble Norman Tebbit in an Anita Harris wig.
After all that palaver, what happens? Future generations completely ignore you and talk incessantly about your son, Henry VIII, whose life was a blur of wives, deaths and divorces, akin to some 16th-century edition of Jeremy Kyle ("I didn't shag my bruvver or that minstrel – he made all it up cuz he fancied Jane Seymour!"). Penn's intriguing documentary made you rather pity Henry VII – he outlived his first-born, Arthur, and his beloved wife, Elizabeth, and spent his life clinging to power, suffering several bouts of TB, before dying in 1509. Another thing I came away with was that, wherever he may be, Henry VII must resent the hell out of Hilary Mantel.
The Fall becomes more addictive with each passing week. Serial killer Spector (Jamie Dornan) was still at large, casing future victims' houses – even when they were at home, trying to have a quick wee with the bathroom door open (manners, Spector, please!). Meanwhile, Gillian Anderson seemed to be having her own nightmare with her preposterously oversexualised character. Yes, we understand that DSI Stella Gibson is a sex goddess/ice queen/(fill in your sexual cliche of choice). However, was it necessary to have her blouse buttons popping open at a police press conference? Was this supposed to imply that her sexuality is of such force that it's quite literally bursting, Hulk-style, through her clothing? ("You wouldn't like me when I'm sexy!").
Despite such silliness, The Fall is understated, creepy brilliance. Dornan is petrifying, and no more so than when Spector is engaging with his increasingly disturbed small daughter (Sarah Beattie) – even hanging a victim's necklace around her neck. In this episode he left her alone outside as he checked out an isolated, dilapidated house's suitability as a lair. (I suppose you can't expect a serial killer to observe health and safety.) Prowling through the rooms, Spector's human mask slipped, a distant "otherness" taking over as, out of sight, his daughter called for him. A scene of immaculate menace, nicely played.
In Secrets of a Suffragette, Clare Balding looked into Emily Wilding Davison being trampled by the king's horse at Epsom (a century ago this Tuesday). Analysis of the disquieting footage suggested that, far from having suicidal intentions, Davison, who died days later, had been trying to secure a suffrage banner on to the King's horse. By the time of her death, suffragettes were routinely beaten, sexually assaulted and imprisoned, all in pursuit of the vote. The documentary detailed Davison's other courageous acts, including hiding overnight in a parliamentary cupboard (so she could list the House of Commons as her residence in the 1911 census), and throwing herself down a prison staircase as a protest against force-feeding.
Presumably Balding was enlisted because of her racing nous – it certainly wasn't her extensive knowledge of suffrage. She was shocked to hear of militant direct action, which included smashing windows and arson. "I rather underestimated it," she gasped. I like Balding, but there's this thing called "research" that she could have tried doing. It was as though she'd presumed suffragettes spent all their time sewing stern rebukes on to samplers.
This mindset was echoed and lampooned by new comedy Up the Women, written by and starring Jessica Hynes. Up the Women has a great premise: a ladies' craft circle is politicised by Margaret (Hynes) into forming a group to "politely request women's suffrage". It also has a great cast, including Rebecca Front as a dissenting snob ("Does your husband know you were cavorting with skirted anarchists?") and Vicki Pepperdine as a simple-minded "old maid". All it lacked was a great first episode. There were some overdone historical gags (one about a lightbulb being a "ridiculous fad" seemed to last for several years), with suffragettes described as "mannish, flat-fronted, bottom-heavy spinsters".
Up the Women seemed undecided whether to aim for a suffrage-themed Dad's Army vibe, or Blackadder-style absurdist drollery, falling nervously in between. Saying that, first episodes are notoriously tricky, and there was more than enough to merit another peek. My favourite bit was Margaret's earnest, quavering, suffragette singsong that attempted to be rousing but ending up sounding as if somebody from Songs of Praise was being gently lowered into a well.
Besides, I would watch Rebecca Front in anything. I would watch her in a week-long, in-depth special on how to treat dry rot (no, I wouldn't). Front also appears on Psychobitches, a series born out of popular acclaim for last year's pilot. She plays an In Treatment-style shrink for famous females from history, and it was a cracking opener, right from the first moment when Rosa Parks needed a seat in the waiting room and everyone quickly jumped up.
I'm always in the market for a pastiche of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?, and the one here, featuring Frances Barber as Bette Davis, and Mark Gatiss dragged up as Joan Crawford, was high-camp nirvana. Other highlights included Samantha Spiro as a fey, infuriating Audrey Hepburn, Sharon Horgan's Eva Perón, suffering from "feelings of grandiosity", and the Brontë sisters transformed into bonnet-wearing, foul-mouthed Chucky dolls.
A few of the short sketches needed to be even shorter – as in 100% shorter. On the whole, though, what a treat, to the point where I started hallucinating. It felt as though the screen was glowing, as if I were in a sci-fi movie, where an all-female (sorry, Mark Gatiss) comedy mothership suddenly appears, illuminated and throbbing, the door opening to reveal none other than Emily Wilding Davison laughing her bloomers off. But then I got over myself. It's quite enough that Psychobitches was indisputably funny.
