We are well into December now. So where, I have been asking myself, is the dark ages/Arthurian/druidic-inflected piece of tomfoolery I crave at this time of year? Where is the swords-and-sorcery, days-of-yore vibe, which somehow feels more Christmassy than anything involving reindeers, celebrities in red hats or even re-runs of Den divorcing Ange at the bottom of the stairs?
Answer: until now, none hath cometh. I have been drowning my sorrows in the wassail cup. But what’s this I hear? Could it be the distant sound of Equity horses’ thundering hooves through a carefully frosted forest facsimile? The sneaking of discarded skins and furs out of the Game of Thrones’ storage lockers and on to smaller, cheaper sets? The uncappings of wig glue and beard-gum bottles that betokens the ersatz medieval nonsense of my dreams? Can I hear the stamping of actors’ boots on cold castle floors as they check in with their agents about how casting for the next White Lotus series in Seychelles is going? I think I can!
