TV: Tudor Time

Is there a sexier bad boy right now than Jonathan Rhys Meyers? He proved that steamy could be dangerous two years ago in Woody Allen’s Match Point, and those same smoldering good looks and careless arrogance are being put to good use as Henry VIII in Showtime’s new miniseries “The Tudors.”

This is a remarkably different version of Henry than we’ve been accustomed to (certainly worlds away from Charles Laughton’s performance in the classic ’30s film The Private Life of Henry VIII). Somewhere between a frat boy and a burgeoning diplomat, Rhys Meyers gives Henry a modern sexual edge that goes a long way to explaining why he bucked centuries of tradition (and risked eternal damnation) to found the Church of England and marry Anne Boleyn, here given a feline cunning by Natalie Dormer.

Though there’s enough soft-core action in the first two episodes to make “The Tudors” a perfect fit for late-night Showtime (like Henry receiving his first blowjob from Anne’s sister Mary), there’s more going on here than just dirty sex in gorgeous costumes. “The Tudors” presents an entertainingly clear-eyed view of historical political maneuverings, many of which have resonance today: the unsure king asking his coterie of advisers and hangers-on if he should go to war; the manipulative, deceptive adviser Cardinal Wolsey (a superb Sam Neill); and the aggressive foe who feels cheated out of the throne by Henry. Except for the costumes, the loose morals and the clear diction, these people might as well be storming around in Washington, D.C., rather than in and out of castles.

But of course, none of the modernization of England would have happened if it weren’t for Henry’s first wife Katherine’s inability to have a son (and here she comes across as only slightly less fanatical in her devotion to God than the mother in Carrie) and Anne’s sexual machinations. If it’s true that behind every great man is a great woman, then perhaps it’s also true—if less well known—that behind every great historical event, there’s the specter of great sex. Certainly one can’t image Rhys Meyers having bad sex, especially considering the way he slurps away at a pomegranate.