Press Archive

The London Times
12 April 2002
by Caitlin Moran

No face like Soames

Memo to The Forsythe Saga: if you want to cast a hissable villian, don’t pick Damian Lewis

I always thought it was The Forsythe Saga, with a big lispy “h”. I am of a generation that has never discussed, merely read about the-classic-nay-seminal BBC adaptation and, as the other thing about our generation is that we just hurtle recklessly through the written word without really paying much attention, I was semi-expecting something with Brucie and Anthea Redfern hissing at each other behind fans. This generational confusion must have been discussed during ITV strategy meetings, because the continuity announcer really hit her “t” in Sunday night’s introduction of the first instalment. “Now, John Galsworthy’s epic tale of passion, power and money — The ForsyTe Saga,” she said. I could feel people all over Britain joining me in a small, abashed reverie about how, come to think of it, there wasn’t an “h” in there, after all.

Good that we got it all out of the way nice and early on, because one of the key things about The Forsyte Saga is its Forsytes. They are legion. All men are Mr Forsyte, and every woman, Mrs or Miss Forsyte. Of the two non-Forsytes, Irene was married into Forsytery by the end of the first episode, and the sex-mouthed French governess is due to be similarly amalgamated at the beginning of episode 2. You can certainly see why it’s called The Forsyte Saga.

“That really does cover it,” Galsworthy must have thought as he wrote the title on the title-page. “I won’t call it The Guys after all.”

Thankfully it’s fairly all-star-casty, and so the Forsyte hordes could be differentiated. There’s the-one-in-the-wheelchair-out-of-Notting Hill Forsyte, the-one-who-didn’t-have-sex-in-Sex’n’Chips’n’Rock’n’Roll Forsyte, and Wendy Craig Forsyte. Corin Redgrave Forsyte was too covered in irascible old uncle mutton-chops to be easily identified, but I’m sure a gust of wind will reveal which harrumphing patriarch he is in episode three.

I hope I will make it to episode three. As with all these classy dramas I adored the first episode, but will probably miss the second and consequently consider it hopeless to watch any more and then come back for the last episode, just to see who died.

It doesn’t mean I love it any the less, however. All the accusations thrown at it before it aired haven’t really stuck. The presumption that the BBC would have done it better has proved groundless. Bournemouth looked so rainy and drear you could well understand how a spirited gel could enter into a loveless marriage, just to get away, and all the period-speak — “It’s a bit thick, old girl.” “I know. Are you very furious?” — comes out just the right side of parody.

However, despite not being a prudish woman, I would say that the accusations of prurient sexing-up do have some basis. The scene where Soames thrust repressedly away on top of Irene, followed by her douching, felt a bit gruesome. Arguing that showing their loveless sex-life illuminates the rest of their relationship is, I’m afraid, parried by the counter-argument that equal psychological insight would have been provided by a scene in which Soames had an effortful and protracted poo, in order to demonstrate how the high-protein Victorian diet of the privileged had left him digestively pensive.

However, all of these debates have distracted from the real big story. For, ladies and gentlemen, humanity has finally produced ginger totty. Damian Lewis is Earth’s first Duracell dish; the matchstick messiah. He’s so very beautiful it feels wrong to call him ginger. I feel a new, suitably charged term needs to be invented — perhaps Fox-Headed Gentleman.

After the first episode, I rang round all my lady friends, all of whom opened the conversation with variants on: “I think I’m getting pervy in my old age. I fancy a ginger.” Universally agreed on items of fineness were Damian’s eyes, which were deemed “naughty”, and his lips, certified “unlikely to quit”. It certainly strikes a blow for a section of the populace whose previous greatest example of red hot pulchritude was Ralph Malph in Happy Days.

When Lewis picks up his Bafta next year, as he almost certainly will, his acceptance speech will make Halle Berry’s “This has opened a door for every woman of colour” speech look like a nonchalant shrug. I suggest that as his first line something along the lines of: “No ginger man need die a virgin again, thanks to my beautiful face.”

And this has had ramifications for The Forsyte Saga. After all, Lewis plays Soames, whom we are supposed to hate. Our sympathy is presumed to lie with Irene, who has entered into a marriage of convenience with him. But given that Soames is clearly the hottest thing in Victorian London by a long yard, while Irene (Gina McKee) just mopes around the plot like a heron with its beak stuck in a jam-jar, the principal narrative thrust is looking a bit shaky. Frankly, Soames has entered into the whole deal with a loving heart, while Irene is a conniving cow — it’s hard to empathise with a character who has just committed an act of cold-hearted honey-hogging.

This isn’t to say that beautiful Damian isn’t doing loads of quality acting: the moment where he forces Irene’s glove off and kisses her unwilling arm, he snarls like a wounded wolf. Later on, when he finally manages to land one on her lips, he looks as awkward and psychopathic as the Penguin in Batman. As I never saw Sarah Bernhardt play Hamlet with a wooden leg, this is the highest acting praise at my disposal.

But there’s no getting away from the fact that the long-term mental-health prognosis for Britain’s female population isn’t good. When the much-vaunted rape scene happens in episode three, I suspect certain sick, confused individuals may hold Go Soames! parties, and cheer him on. I can’t condone it. But I am asking people to turn up around 7pm, and to bring nibbles.