The Halcyon: Hotel Downton
|The sets were nice, I'll give it that.|
Where to begin? On an obvious level, there was the same class-cosiness as Downton had, that impression that nobody minds if rich people are rich and other people have to wait on them hand and foot because they're usually so very nice only the truly churlish could mind, and it's not as though they really expect any special treatment. (Believe that? I don't. Being working-class has never been a barrel of cheery forelock-tugging fun.) The manager of the Halcyon, a luxury hotel, was incredibly informal with its titled owner - and, even less likely, so was his daughter, who, we're also supposed to believed, played with his lordship's sons when they were all children.
Then there was the speech. I realise a proper upper-class 1930s accent would sound quite strange to modern ears, and possibly be quite hard for a modern actor to pull off, but what the actors said was more anachronistic than how they said it. I find it hard to believe that anyone posh would've said 'invite' (verb) where 'invitation' (noun) was correct, and 'halcyon' would have been pronounced 'halkyon' because it's from the Greek. It all grated. Possibly it wouldn't bother a lot of people, but it bothered me.
|Two things are wrong in this scene: the popsy, and the mismatched chair.|
|Receptionist, deliverer of cocktails... robo-staff never sleep!|
I shall refrain from going on at length about the BBC's Christmas adaptation of Agatha Christie's Witness For The Prosecution, but that disappointed me too. The costumes were better, but it still all felt over-wrought and as though a desperate attempt had been made to sex it up.
Law of averages means we must be due something good after all that lot. I wonder what it'll be?