Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, Episode 4: Recap and Review

Did you see them? Those fleeting bits of scenes glimpsed through cloudy mirrors. They had a woozy, ethereal quality, as if the audience is looking in from the land of the Raven King. For a few moments we are his fairy servants. At least, I like to think so.

They're scattered throughout this episode and there's one right at the beginning, in the chaotic aftermath of Lady Pole's attempt to kill Norrell. As she is dragged kicking and screaming from the street, tied to a bed and sedated, Childermass is slapped onto a table so doctors can dig about in his wound. His hallucination when they find the bullet – he wakes up beside a dead tree in a stony landscape and a raven flies out of the bloody gash – is a thing of stark beauty. In fact, every scene in this haunting series is something to behold.

Is Childermass the new Raven King? He certainly looks a bit like him.

But more of that later. "All magicians lie, that one more than most, oh yes," whispers a voice over the opening title. As an Amadeus obsessive I've been seeing Amadeusy bits everywhere and this is one of them. Peter Shaffer's play starts with gossipy whispers, and here it is Norrell who is being talked about. How much longer can he proclaim the best interests of English magic when he used black magic and consorted with the Gentleman to resurrect Lady Pole?

Norrell is furious, not because he's been shot at (although that is annoying) but because his secret is in danger of being discovered. Caught in a web of lies, the purity of his vision is seeping away. As Childermass comes to, Norrell lies his head off again.

"There was magic everywhere," says Childermass. "There was power..."

"It was mine," insists Norrell. "Who else's should it be?"

Um, I think you'll find it was the Gentleman's. But for now it is over to Lascelles, who, in a bid to preserve his own interests as Norrell biographer, demonstrates a flair for PR. "Nobody knows who shot at you," says he. "We may put it about that it was a French spy. Lady Pole may be put in an asylum. The whole business will be put behind us."

Good plan. Trouble is no one believes it for a second. Nevertheless, Lady Pole is taken to Starecross, Segundus and Honeyfoot's makeshift asylum. "Have you been madhouse keepers for long?" asks Stephen.

It is a crudely-phrased question that Segundus takes with characteristically good grace. "No, her ladyship is our first patient," says he.

"But you are doctors?"

"Not in the fullest sense of the word."

This should sound sinister but Segundus and Honeyfoot are incapable of cynicism. "Well, that went very well," says Segundus, turning the key as Lady Pole screams from within. It is a sweetly comic moment. Who wouldn't want to be nursed by these two dear men? All they need now is Poldark's Verity with her possets and they'd have a recipe for the ideal institution. Book me in – I'd be in heaven.

More Amadeus? Norrell and Strange have an audience with the king at Windsor. Hunched at his harpsichord picking out duff chords, Edward Petherbridge's George III is a dead ringer for old Salieri. That's not to detract from his pitch- perfect and moving portrayal of old age in all its frailty and vulnerability. It is understated, un-hammy, and moving.

While at Windsor Strange sees a painting of John Uskglass, the Raven King, depicted on a throne in a thorny forest and surrounded by fairy servants (who include a clearly recognisable Gentleman with thistledown hair).

"I've seen statues of him in the north, engravings in books... I never saw a painting before," says Strange. 

It is a breathtaking moment, not least because we the audience too are granted our first glimpse of the Raven King we've heard so much about. Dark, swarthy and long-haired, he is uncannily reminiscent of Childermass. You can see why Strange's maid Mary is quite taken with Norrell's servant. "He is very dashing. He has such a thick Yorkshire voice, you can picture him going about the moors in a most romantic fashion..."

Ross Poldark eat your heart out. Why has the same fuss not been made about Childermass? Granted he's yet to get his kit off, but...

Ahem. "This is a picture of everything that has disgraced and crippled English magic for the last 300 years," says Norrell. The scene in which wild-haired Strange tries to defend the use of ancient magic to an increasingly turtle-faced Norrell recalls the scene in Amadeus when Mozart defends the use of German in opera to a bemused Emperor Josef. Little does Strange know how well-acquainted Norrell actually is with the magic of the Raven King.

There's yet another Amadeus-esque scene when, at the Bedford, Strange is asked by two gentleman from 'Nothinghamshire' to prove his magical virtuosity. Just as Tom Hulce's Mozart plays a note-perfect recital of Salieri's march after hearing it just once, Strange impresses all when he disappears into a mirror – and discovers the Raven King's ancient roads.

This is just one of a an abundance of gob-smacking moments in another densely-packed episode. I've not mentioned that deranged wide-eyed grin on Marc Warren's face when Stephen opens the door at Starecross – a moment of acting brilliance and unhinged madness.  Or the disturbing scene in which the Gentleman constructs an Arabella doppelganger from a piece of moss oak and the tears in her handkerchief. Or the bit when Strange and Arabella have a row and the two soldiers pretend not to notice ("Well, thank you for a lovely evening!"). Or Honeyfoot's gun loaded with walnuts.

How is it possible to fit so much into an hour without it feeling rushed or over-stuffed? Things that normally irritate me – 'big' theatrical acting, unnatural and affected drama school intonation – are not present here. Some of the scenes are quite long – and that's a good thing – with long pieces of dialogue where people actually talk to each other properly, and in detail. Too many notes? No. This is gorgeous TV that does not patronise its audience and trusts its viewers. What a relief this is.