The significant symbolism of 80s Irish iconography: an image of JFK, a pious illustration of Jesus’s Sacred Heart, the Declaration of Independence, and a frequently pored-over (even less so modestly) edition of Jilly Cooper’s Riders displaying a hand caressing a trouser-clad posterior. Presumably, with the tolerated humour of Irish wit, the hand in question belongs to Jesus, sent with a purpose probably related to divine rehabilitation.
Jilly Cooper’s Riders may not have found a place in Fintan O’Toole’s notable ‘History of Ireland in 100 Objects,’ but one may argue it deserved one. There hardly existed a home in the deeply Catholic Ireland of the 80s, without a Jilly Cooper story. The books appeared as if by magic, without anyone having to actually purchase them. Perhaps they materialised as a result of our stifled desires and our nascent turn towards secularism.
They’d then circulate amongst teenage girls like underground literature, instilling unrealistic expectations about romantic relations, the kind of boys within reach (I won’t deny having some resentment) and England (deemed a hub of extravagant indecency). Each novel would bristle with aggressive businessmen (in a literal and figurative capacity), non-committal noblemen and assertive, sexually-confident female characters who lived by their own rules.
I had initially assumed the essence of Cooper’s novels would be impossible to adapt. However, the debut sequence of Disney+’s Rivals adaptation – another of Cooper’s classics, can put your fears to rest. It begins with a luxury Concorde jet racing across the sky, followed by visuals of a man’s gyrating posterior amidst intimate sounds of a woman in the plane’s washroom. These shots are interspersed with scenes of a soap dispenser erupting and an overflow of champagne. The suggestion that we are in reliable, albeit depraved hands, is immediate.
In the background, radio show hosts – The 2 Johnnies, can be heard. They’re the result of feeding famous British TV hosts, Ant and Dec, Tayto sandwiches post-nightfall – teasing listeners in their unique way.
Patrick Freyne: He queries where the reality show Love in the Country finds its silent Irish men, believing they had mysteriously disappeared from the isle, akin to ancient elks and the concept of embarrassment.
The last spectacle is of three different types of ageing Englishmen, left to wander the landscapes one final time, exhibiting their raw, booming presence.
Rupert Campbell-Black (portrayed by Alex Hassell) is a Conservative Member of Parliament who owns the infamous bum in the first act. Beware of the spoilers: there will be plenty more bums on display. It’s almost certain that most characters will reveal their backsides before the series concludes. This leads me to start anticipating each character’s bare bum moment as soon as they’re introduced.
Upon returning to his airline seat, Campbell-Black is eyed by the ladies around him, only to discover Lord Baddingham, an aptly named antagonist/anti-hero, played by David Tennant, beside him. Lord Baddingham proves his worldly charm by engaging with a hefty newspaper, which to some newspaper reporters of a particular generation might be as arousing as a bare bum. They cheer in sync, “Cor, Baddingham’s got a whopper of a broadsheet!”, longingly thinking of a time when their line of work had a tighter grip on content.
Baddingham lets Campbell-Black in on the opulent investments he’s made towards Corinium, his regional TV network. He’s employed and he’s having a romantic relation with a high-profile American executive, Cameron Cook (Nafessa Williams). Moreover, he has also successfully tempted Declan O’Hara (a splendidly moustached Aidan Turner), an Irish host resembling Wogan, away from the BBC where he felt suppressed by its “rules” and “traditions”. Soon we see O’Hara confidently going shirtless in a kitchen. Fans of Poldark might recognise this torso that went sans shirt frequently – a signature Turner move.
O’Hara decides to move his family to the Cotswolds to mingle with the key-swapping high society there. This infuriates his gorgeous spouse, Maud (brilliantly played by Victoria Smurfit), who has been engaging in extramarital affairs due to ennui. However, his innocent daughter, Taggie (Bella Maclean), is enthralled, especially with a completely naked, tennis-playing Campbell-Black. The appeal of him? Hard to say. It’s a large part.
Dominic Treadwell-Collins and Laura Wade have delivered a compelling adaptation of Jilly Cooper’s work that wonderfully captures its essence, mixing risqué content with the cutthroat world of business. The series, steeped in 1980s nostalgia, evokes the era authentically without falling into the trap of absurdity.
The central narrative revolves around Baddingham’s attempts to grow his business through strategic alliances while taking down his rivals. This main plot is generously laced with scenes of intimate encounters between the upper-class characters, adding an enticing element to the storyline.
All cast members have endowed their characters with a palpable sense of realism. No extreme caricatures to be seen, they approach their roles with earnestness, maintaining the integrity of the plot. Whether it’s the rich milieu, the fashionable attire, the luxurious vehicles, or the grand residences, each is skilfully represented to recreate the true spirit of the ’80s.
The series also avoids the common temptation of incorporating cheap, period-specific humour. Cooper’s hallmark comedic touch, however, is preserved in her signature light-hearted portrayal of characters.
Indeed, Cooper’s work exhibits a fascination for the various strata of the wealthy in society almost bordering on an obsession. Her characters range from blueblooded aristocrats to the bourgeoisie hell-bent on status acquisition and the ambitious nouveaux riches, with Danny Dyer giving a stellar performance as one. The series portrays these characters in relatable and humanising settings, ultimately leading to heated romantic exploits.
Cooper’s creations seem to underscore the fact that despite societal standings, inherent human desires and instincts prevail. This could be seen as a sort of Cooperian interpretation of the Hegelian dialectic, implying an inevitable synthesis following thesis and antithesis.
In the concluding episode, aptly, a series of intimate moments constitute a significant part; however, there’s additional depth. For Irish society in the 1980s, this drama, replete with prevalent nudity and class-awareness, was indeed an eye-opener. The wealthy class was represented solely by Charles Haughey, a view circulated among a select few. Yet, Rivals stands out with its well-crafted plot, captivatingly entertaining and unexpectedly touching narrative, accompanied by a variety of interesting characters. Hence, Disney is welcome to integrate this in their promotional materials.
Alternatively, one can opt for a respite from the showy 1980s style by exploring Slow Horses (Apple TV+). The latest season which wrapped up recently is the finest drams now showing on television, revolving around a grimy spy story set in a derelict unit for dishonoured MI5 agents. The unit is led by Jackson Lamb (Gary Oldman), who portrays the role with such realism and brilliance that it’s possible to almost sense his griminess.
Will Smith, the showrunner for four seasons, has proficiently adapted Mick Herron’s novels, delivering a consistently engrossing, often humorous, and continuously unexpected narrative. Characters that could easily have become stereotypes turn out distinct under Smith/Herron’s watch. This often results in scenarios that are genuinely touching amidst the action and comedy. Sudden character exits, the poignant decline of elderly spies, and chaos ensued in London by rogue operatives all form part of this season’s storyline. Particularly, young spy prodigy River Cartwright (Jack Lowden) grapples with the cognitive decline of his former intelligence overseer grandfather (Jonathan Pryce).
The Slow Horses series is far from slow-paced. Contrarily, there are no literal horses involved. For actual horsemanship, one would need to revert back to Rivals, with “riding” serving as a euphemism for “sex”.