Desperate Romantics Episode 1: Recap and Review

A beautiful man in a billowing shirt, and with dark luscious locks hanging in his face, frolicking with a red-headed woman. Is it Poldark?

No, it’s even better. When I saw that BBC 4 was repeating Desperate Romantics, I was keen to watch it again. At the time of its original airing in 2009, it created a bit of a stir for its racy portrayal of the Victorian art collective that called itself the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. Having watched it first time round I remembered that, unlike most previous period dramas, it had lots of shagging—referred to in the series as ‘beasting’—with jaunty music, snappy pacing and a sharp script containing numerous laugh-out-loud moments. It also had a gorgeous cast, which included a pre-Poldark Aidan Turner, whose lustrous hair, as we all know, is almost a character in itself (he’s not the only one to have a copious barnet: hair is a big feature in this drama; many characters have lots of it. But more of that later). 

The reason for this fresh approach was to emulate not only the pioneering spirit of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, but also that taken by Franny Moyle in her biography of the same name, and on which this television adaptation is based. The expository intertitle at the start of each episode makes this clear: ‘The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood were inspired by the real world around them, yet took imaginative license with their art. This story, based on their lives and loves, follows in that inventive spirit.’ 13 years on, would this adaptation stand the test of time? Or would it have dated? 

No need to worry about that at the moment, because first we have to be sure exactly who it is we’re dealing with. In case we’ve already forgotten, it’s the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. We know this because there is more overt exposition delivered by Fred Walters, friend and champion of the primary founders of the movement, and who also narrates the programme. There’s the enigmatic Italian Rossetti (Aidan Turner), then there’s the sensitive and impressionable Millais (Samuel Barnett), and the bellicose Holman Hunt (Rafe Spall), nicknamed ‘Maniac’. These are “the most radical and celebrated painters of their generation.” 

Being the Italian cliché that he is, Rossetti is full of passion and intensity. The fact that he is not just any old artist, too, but a bohemian radical seeking revolution, is signified by his mad hair, silly hat that he wears perched on the back of his head, and flowery waistcoat. And as if all that wasn’t enough, he seethes with so much sexual ardour that he can barely contain himself. All this makes for an explosive combination, and most things are difficult for him, even drawing, which he attempts in moody concentration, bottom lip thrust out, eyes screwed up—before throwing his equipment on the floor in frustration. 

Things aren’t easy for Holman Hunt, either, who has to take his anger and passion out on a punchbag, and speaks as though he has a hot chip in his mouth. Only the sweet Millais—“a child prodigy on the verge of puberty”—has done any decent work so far. However, they all agree that their first urgent task, apart from poncing around London like the Bee Gees on speed, is to find a muse. Having clocked Lizzie Siddal in one of the hat shops his mother frequents, Fred thinks he’s found one, but Rossetti isn’t convinced. 

“Have you any idea how important it is for us to find the perfect model?” says he, spitting words out with sneering scorn. “And you drag us to meet a hat shop girl?” Rossetti thinks that the ideal model should be a redheaded prostitute, but he’s exhausted all the brothels so can’t afford to be too choosy.

Stepping out to a soundtrack of harps and angelic voices, Lizzie instantly impresses with her pale skin, long red tresses and distinctive beauty. Awestruck, the artists watch her shake her hair down in slow-motion. A throbbing gland, Rossetti rules himself out of asking her to sit for the artists. “She should be approached by one who carries no sexual threat whatsoever,” says he, insisting that Fred ask her instead. 

Intrigued by their proposition, Lizzie is keen to abandon her mundane job at the hat shop. “The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood are very famous indeed within artistic circles,” she tells her family. 

“Particularly in their own circle—all three of them,” says Lizzie’s no-nonsense sister, who is suspicious of their bravado. 

And she’s right, they do think rather a lot of themselves. The question is, will anyone else? They have an exhibition coming up to showcase their genius, but will anyone go? They’ve been pestering the esteemed critic and taste-maker John Ruskin to put in an appearance and show the world that they are a serious force to be reckoned with. Wearily, Ruskin promises to view their work in progress and, if it lives up to his expectations, he’ll attend their exhibition. “If it does not,” says he, “Will you promise to leave me alone?”

Poor Ruskin. He has a lot on his mind: his young wife Effie, too, is keen for his attention. Legend has it that Ruskin was repulsed by her pubic hair and menstrual flow. Whether this was true or not, sexual appetite is not attractive to him and he cannot find it in himself to consummate his marriage. He gets out his secret porn stash—a pile of naughty drawings he has hidden in his study—but even that won’t work. This scene is comical and made me scream with laughter, which is a shame because the scene when Effie offers herself to him later is handled much more sensitively. 

Ruskin rejects both Effie and the Brotherhood, singling out Lizzie, in Holman Hunt’s painting of Sylvia from Shakespeare’s Two Gentlemen of Verona, as too sluttish. Having given up her steady day job, Lizzie is mortified and furious to find that Holman Hunt has replaced her with saucy serving wench Annie Miller, a sort of 19th Century Barbara Windsor, who laughs loudly and also has copious hair.  

Fortunately, Rossetti is on standby: Lizzie is just what he needs to unlock his artistic genius. This is vital because the Brotherhood are still committed to the exhibition, due to Fred having written an article publicizing it and saying that Ruskin will be there. 

Not to be put off, Millais and Fred change tack and approach Ruskin’s wife with an invitation. Visiting her at home, the two insist that she attends the exhibition, even if it’s by herself. “We are very unconventional and most fond of ladies coming alone,” says Fred. 

“Fred,” says Millais. “Try not to be too modern, you will shock Mrs Ruskin.”

It is a comical exchange—one of several bawdy moments throughout the episode—but also poignant. ‘Coming alone’ is all Effie can do, because her husband is not about to oblige her. 

Ruskin does oblige the artists, in the end, by attending the exhibition with his wife. Charles Dickens is there too, an irritating caricature played by Mark Heap. He and artist Frank Stone (played by Aidan Turner’s Poldark colleague, Phil Davis) mock the paintings, calling them “Pictorial blasphemy.” 

“Of course, Wordsworth mocked Turner,” says Ruskin, putting them in their place. “In spite of their unfortunate name,” he continues, “the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, as they gain experience, may lay in our England the foundation of a school of art nobler than the world has seen for 300 years.” Not bad for a group who Stone had earlier dismissed as “pavement artists" that aroused “utter disgust”.

By the time I got to the end of the episode, my initial irritations—buildings shot from strange angles in order to avoid anachronisms, clumsy exposition, the telling rather than showing—had melted away. The expository intertitle too, I realised, meant everything and nothing. ‘The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood were inspired by the real world around them’ (as opposed to the fake world?), ‘yet took imaginative license with their art’ (like any other artist, then). How could I take it seriously, when there was nothing there to take seriously? There was nothing to do but relax and enjoy it, in all its shallow and vacuous glory.  

And how can I complain, really, when Aidan gives such good Aidan? An actor whose subtlety is inversely proportional to the amount of hair he has, his exquisite beauty is almost offensive and he’s at his very best here, in a role that makes for plenty of pouting and scowling in taverns, or flouncing and prancing around the streets. Predating Poldark, it surely set him in good stead. “You know what you did in Desperate Romantics?” Poldark’s makers must have said to him. “Do that.”

He has demonstrated subtlety elsewhere, but this is not a role that calls for it. In the scene in a coffee house partway through this episode, our brooding protagonist asks for “A large pot of coffee and perhaps some bread and cheese.” It’s a hammy moment, to go with the surplus cheese that is to be had here. But that’s what makes Desperate Romantics at once awful and engaging. At the time of its first appearance it felt different, although it is perhaps not as much of a pioneer in the genre of modern historical drama as it may like to think. More Horrible Histories with boobs (and that’s not to discredit the brilliant children’s TV series), Desperate Romantics has dated as much as anything does. Which is to say that, in this particular case, not too badly at all.