I’ve become a Covid-Netflix couch potato

I admit it, I’ve been binging on Netflix of late. In truth, it’s been going on since at least early March, and during that time it’s been difficult keeping count of the weeks, the hours and the series I’ve sat through.

In my defence, I would argue that it was due mostly to lockdown; that enforced layoff which brought the global community to its knees and onto its sofas, creating a reluctant communion of bleary-eyed, couch potatoes.

There was much to watch – especially if you weren’t particularly choosy, or if like me you were trying to catch up on old series. Some were astonishingly brilliant, but too many were appallingly trite or a curate’s egg, at best.

House of Cards, about a power-hungry politician and his equally sociopathic wife, largely lived up to expectations, at least until Kevin Spacey – playing the demonic Francis Underwood – was unceremoniously dumped from the series following real-life allegations of sexual assault.

But his exit also hastened the series’ demise. Robin Wright, as his correspondingly sinister wife, did a commendable job trying to keep viewers glued to their seats, but she lacked the charisma of Spacey’s character.

At one time the series stretched the bounds of political credibility by depicting Underwood as a murderous cross between Machiavelli and Richard Nixon, but all it took is for Donald Trump to become president – thereby setting in motion the most bizarre US presidency in history – to make him appear almost mundane in comparison.

And that’s perhaps why the series already feels desperately irrelevant and out of date.

Sword and sandal epics have their own particular charm, but Spartacus was blighted by quite possibly the worst script since Emperor Nero decided to take up poetry writing. For reasons known only to themselves, the fly-by-night scriptwriters decided that emulating Latin was as simple as reversing the order of English nouns, adverbs, prepositions and adjectives, and peppering the lot with the words ‘cock’ and ‘fuck’.

Nothing and no-one could salvage the resulting mess, no matter how much gore or naked bodies you slapped on the screen.

Yet the series’ finale retained a modicum of dignity, probably because nothing rouses the human spirit more than the words ‘freedom’ and ‘liberty’. You actually felt sorry for those slaves who misguidedly thought they could defeat the might of the Roman Empire as they were being sliced up like cuts of ripe salami.

Versailles was another cringe-worthy experience, and all the glamour and bodice ripping antics of 17^th century court life could not salvage this tedious series, which lurched aimlessly from beginning to end.

The makers were under the misconception that viewers would be so dazzled by the opulent splendour of the palace of Versailles that they would ignore the series’ shortcomings, namely the lack of a coherent plot and an intelligent script.

But talent will out and the series ended abruptly after season three, with the murder of the ‘man in the iron mask’; the true father of the monarch and his brother, at least in this fictional account of the life of the ‘Sun King’, Louis XIV.

The viewer was left with the sobering impression that Louis was indeed a vile, spiteful, murderously deluded and thoroughly mean-minded monarch, but unlike in House of Cards, where the evil Francis Underwood was on occasion able to win over the audience with his devilish charm, George Blagden’s Louis came across as nothing more than an underachieving, petulant fop.

The Politician bravely tackled a host of social issues with incisive humour and intriguing characters, but it was hard to work out if the writers were attempting to make a positive statement about being woke, or had their tongues firmly in their cheeks when they devised this comedy-drama.

The series was ultimately let down by Season Two’s sickly-sweet ending that betrayed its bold premise, but if The Politician failed to deliver as a biting political satire at least we got to enjoy Ben Platt’s superb talent as a singer.

Sons of Anarchy did what few other TV series manage to do in that it was simultaneously loud, brash and utterly dull.

Running for a yawn-inducing seven seasons, the series followed the trials and tribulations of a group of outlaw bikers, led by the chiselled-jawed Jax Teller.

Clambering on their flatulent Harleys, they rode from one leather-clad scene to the next, imposing their warped sense of honour by regularly turning opponents into bloody colanders.

Sadly for them, and despite their best efforts, they failed to dispel the notion they were just a bunch of losers, perhaps because they were unconsciously being pitched against the Italian mafia. But that lot dressed better, ate better and had infinitely funnier accents. Why, even their killing sprees were carried out with more panache.

Not so with these ten-a-penny ragamuffins, whose rough-and-ready appeal wore thin after Episode One of Season One. This was not helped by the desperately cheesy urban poetry that was shoehorned into the script.

In the series finale, Jax decided to live up to his tragic-hero persona by pointing his Harley towards an oncoming truck and ending it all like a bargain-basement Leonidas, but not before wacking every low-down thug north of the Equator in yet another bloody showdown.

Black Sails proved to be a revelation once you got past the first two, ham-fisted episodes. What could have descended into another trite, boob ‘n’ gore fest – something that appeared to be on the cards at the start – was transformed into an often thoughtful and excellently conceived TV drama.

Who would have thought that a mainstream series about swashbuckling pirates would tackle deeply moral and existential issues so deftly? Well, hard though it is to believe, the makers pulled a peg-leg rabbit out of the hat with this one.

Toby Stephens was brilliant as the mysterious and brooding Captain Flint, a wronged man gradually consumed by his lust for revenge and mentally weakened by his loss of identity. He was aided by a strong supporting cast, led by Luke Arnold as the duplicitous but ever-evolving Long John Silver, Toby Schmitz as the charmingly caddish ‘Calico Jack’ John Rackham, and Louise Barnes as the passionately free-spirited, Miranda Barlow. And it was all done without a single gravel-throated ‘ooh arrrh’ or parrot in sight.