The Village: still bleak enough to love

John is telling Grace that theyll have to cut back on a few luxuries sleep, the desire to not be kicked to death by cows in a freezing puddle etc Derbyshire, 1923 and the winds of revolution are blustering into the sleet of misery that hangs over The Village (Sun, 9pm, BBC1). Youll remember

The other sideTelevision

‘John is telling Grace that they’ll have to cut back on a few luxuries – sleep, the desire to not be kicked to death by cows in a freezing puddle etc’

Derbyshire, 1923 and the winds of revolution are blustering into the sleet of misery that hangs over The Village (Sun, 9pm, BBC1). You’ll remember the premise: fictional centenarian Bert Middleton is trudging, ankle-deep in mud and bovine excreta, down memory lane. Over 42 solid hours, Bert will relay the major events of 20th-century British history, as seen from his village. And to think we only asked him where his slippers were. Bert’s history is truly grim; if you read it on genesreunited.com it would make you slam your Dell shut and go in search of a stiff drink. In essence, it’s a tragic, slurry-soaked Heimat. Crymat, if you will.

As we return for series two, rabble rousers from the city are reciting Shelley, and those of a more agricultural persuasion are muttering mild dissent. Grace Middleton is haunted by her dead son’s plea to “make it a better world”, while John Middleton is still struggling with the diva-like demands of his dairy cows. There are new bastard landlords and even more bastardly toffs, namely media tycoon and political string puller Lord Kilmartin, AKA Rupert Burdock. “But something,” narrates Old Bert in tones of dewy mornings and soggy Mint Imperials, “had changed.” He’s not wrong. Things seem to be looking up in the village. The menfolk who aren’t dead have taken to singing cheerily in pubs and dressing as if they’re serving you a steak slice from a food truck at Ye Olde Gentrification Fayre; later they take a philosophical view of dead brothers via Hovis-tinted bike rides o’er hill and down dale.

The good-time vibes have also hit the big house (“Electricity! Einstein! Jazz! Anything’s possible!”) which is good news for fans of dashingly unhinged aristos. Caro is navigating the choppy waters of being a toff with a personality the only way she knows how – scandalous new dance crazes – while elsewhere there’s a sexual revolution stirring in Edmund’s starched underclothes. The only blot on the horizon comes in the shape of Prick of the Realm Kilmartin, who has a plan to lead a jolly sporting human hunt where tweedy inbreeders with a title are “the hounds” and Bert is “the hare”, an apparently traditional game of the upper classes (if anyone can verify this as fact and meet me at the nearest guillotine wholesalers I’d be much obliged).

I don’t know where this wave of vaguely factual it’s-grim-in-t’past Sunday night drama came from (see also: The Mill), but I am resolutely into it. Give me mothers carrying their dead children on to bleak hillsides, grinding poverty, scared boys being shot at dawn and the inner workings and failings of the human pulmonary system all day every day. (Barman: sorrow all round!) Dramas featuring dank houses high on lockable punishment cupboards but low on errant aristocracy dropping by with an invite to Lady Grantham’s Super Fundraiser for the Appreciative Poor are a simple pleasure. It’s not that I want to spend a cosy Sunday night contemplating the horrors of war, starvation and the Derbyshire milk board, It’s just that I can’t hack another good-looking actor galloping around in a bustle bleating about a love that can never be. I signed up for the full rainbow of earthly suffering, which by the way is mainly just shades of grey and brown, not Pa Middleton covered in cow placenta smiling “new life”.

Will the sop hit the fan? It could go either way. Back in a field, the farm is in peril and John is telling Grace that they’ll have to cut back on a few luxuries – sleep, the desire to not be kicked to death by cows in a freezing puddle etc. This is the woman who, last series, wrestled her husband down from a noose and five minutes later delivered her own baby, calmly cutting the umbilical cord with a penknife, before rustling up supper from tears, dust and a few mildewed old wheatsheaves. How much more hardship can she take? Hopefully there’s room for a bit more. “In 130 years the hounds have never lost,” says Lady Allingham with clanging portent.

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