Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, Episode 1: Recap and Review

When I heard that director Toby Hynes had drawn inspiration from Amadeus, I was excited. A bit later than Mozart – Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell is set in the early 19th Century, during the Napoleonic wars – the parallels are nevertheless clear. Amid a cast of eccentric characters in powdered wigs, a lone genius conjuring powers from a source beyond himself is paraded around the land to astound society with his talents.

It's all a bit different from Poldark. We're in the north, for a start, away from the sea, and it looks cold, with twisted branches silhouetted against gunmetal skies. There are also a lot of untidy rooms, dripping wax, shadows – and bats? If not, there ought to be.

'Cause a man is attempting to cast a spell with water and a raven in a cage. Two maids observe him through cracks in the door. "Is he a magician?" asks one. "No, he smells too nice," says the other.

Considering your typical magician these days is a vagabond charlatan who hangs around street corners uttering nonsensical prophecies, she has a point. No real practical magic has been done in England for over 300 years, dying seemingly overnight. Post-Enlightenment, it only exists in theory, discussed with flat northern vowels by portly gentlemen around a large wooden table.

This is the Learned Society of York Magicians and one of its members, John Segundus, wants to find out why this is the case. "It's the wrong question," replies its president, Dr Foxcastle. "We study magic but do not perform it. We don't expect an astronomer to create stars, or a botanist to create new flowers..."

But nice-smelling Mr Segundus wants to do some spells. Trouble is he can't find any books – quite rightly pronounced 'bewks' – because, as he discovers from his bookseller's accounts, a certain Mr Norrell is hogging them all.

A swirling soundtrack takes us to his big house in the country, where a scholarly Norrell explains he is "a tolerable, practical magician" who wants to restore his craft to respectability, and use magic for good.

After Norrell proves his abilities in a stunning demonstration inside a shivering night-clad York Minster, where gargoyles and statues suddenly begin to move and speak, Segundus writes to the London newspapers and "the miracle of York" is the talk of the capital. Here Norrell is taken under the wing of the flamboyant socialite Christopher Drawlight, who as his self-proclaimed John the Baptist parades him around parties in the hope that he'll perform some more miracles.

But magic is mysterious and unpredictable, and Norrell doesn't feel the need to ingratiate himself. When his offer to assist the government in the wars is turned down he is even less inclined. "I am not a performing monkey... I do not wish to attend soirees, dinner parties or salons."

Neither does he fall for the blatherings of mischievous tarot-reading jester Vinculus, played by an excellent if inaudible Paul Kaye. Collaring Norrell in the street, he tells him he is one of two magicians whose coming was foretold long ago by the Raven King. This makes Norrell even more determined to leave London for Yorkshire. 

But not before he is accidentally talked into carrying out his showpiece. Prime Minister Walter Pole's new bride is dead and, seeing an opportunity to restore magic back to its former respectability, Norrell decides to bring her back to life.

"I have a mind to write a play based on this sorry affair," says Drawlight's companion, Lascelles, as they wait outside Lady Pole's bedroom. "I shall call it ''Tis Pity She's a Corpse'."

Arf! A joke that had lit. grads everywhere snickering. Not that she's a corpse for long. Norrell is joined in his spell-casting by The Gentleman with thistledown hair (a beguiling Elvis-wigged Marc Warren), a spirit with whom he makes a Mephistophelean pact. Soon Lady Pole is dancing around the room, missing half a finger, and snooty Mrs Wintertowne is eating her words. Now Norrell is bound to have, as Drawlight puts it, "the Poles on his doorstep".

This is how I like my historical fiction. Given that the genre is so hard to take seriously, better create it with the ridiculous built in. If you're going to be absurd – as opposed to unintentionally so –  at least do it properly. It's how I like my magic, too. No card tricks, rabbits in hats or ladies sawn in two here. No posh schoolkids playing quidditch, either (thank God).