Today I will be discussing House of Beamish, a show that’s only available on Netflix Cork, which is, of course, the best Netflix.
Scene 1
Arthur Beamish strolls onscreen. He has a big moustache and a pocket watch, and is wearing a powdered wig, leg warmers and a pair of Nike Air Jordans.
His brother Edward Beamish is already in there. He’s wearing a toga, a knight’s helmet, a digital watch and frogman’s flippers, and he’s holding a Sega Mega Drive.
“Arthur, as you know it’s the 19th century and all of our stuff is from the olden days, and I really need to talk to you about the beer factory left to us by our father, Papa Beamish, who, as you are aware, just died.”
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Today I will discuss House of Beamish. I think I remember the plot from history class, but we were all quite drunk
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“Edward, I am not interested in beer. I am interested in moustaches and riding lads.”
A load of Ewoks break into the room to a mash-up of Kneecap, Foster and Allen, and The Hokey Cokey. “Raaagh,” they say.
“Oh no! Fenians!” cries Anne Beamish, who is dressed as Smurfette and holding a fidget spinner.
“An bhfuil cead agam dul go dtí an leithreas?” cry the Fenians.
“And that’s their song of war!” says dissolute Benjamin Beamish, who is tired of this joke so is just wearing his normal clothes.
[ House of Guinness review: Like Succession with shillelaghsOpens in new window ]
The Fenians run around wrecking the gaff until Edward lures their leader, an attractive red-haired Ewok (Ireland’s political strife is largely between red-haired and black-haired folk) with a bowl of delicious Beamish.
“I have a proposition for you, Fenian,” says Edward. “What if, instead of trying to attack us to gain possession of our delicious porter” – this is the root of Ireland’s problems if you’re to follow the logic of the show – “we work together and unite the country under the banner of my beautiful, bountiful booze?”
We see shots of some Beamish being made.
“Raaar?” says the Fenian, alluringly.
We flash forward to Silicon Docks in the 21st century. Ireland’s low corporate-tax rate flashes on the screen.
End scene.
Look, Steven Knight, the writer and creator of House of Guinness and, previously, Peaky Blinders, never promised us historical accuracy. The show starts with a disclaimer of sorts: “This fiction is inspired by true stories”.
The first few episodes concern the Guinnesses’ attempt to secure their seat in parliament, expand into the United States and reposition themselves as contradictory Fenian-friendly unionists. They are the only ones, it is said at one point, who can “bring the Protestants and Catholics of this city together”.
I think I remember this from history class, sitting with the state-mandated daily pint of Guinness given to all under-12s, but I can’t be certain. We were all quite drunk in school.
I mean, I have some questions.
Did the Guinnesses of the 19th century sound like schoolteachers from Drumcondra and not King Charles or, indeed, the Guinnesses today? I’ll be damned if I know.
Were the Guinnesses somehow central to Ireland’s story of independence? There is no way to check.
Have Fontaines DC been around since the 19th century? It certainly feels that way.
Is it really a wise idea to present the Famine as this terrible thing that happened without explaining its causes? Is it good that the Irish rebels are depicted as shouty, violent rabble-rousers without making it clear that they have reasons to be angry?
Is it okay that the Guinnesses are just presented as posher Irish people who happen to be in Dublin rather than being there as a consequence of colonial land theft? Is it really true that the armed struggle could have ended early if everyone could just relax over a nice, refreshing bottle of Guinness? (I fact-checked that one with Diageo, and they said yes.)
I mean, one answer to all of these questions is, “Who cares? Shut up, nerd. History shmistory,” and I suspect it’s how Knight responded to all notes.
Much like Downton Abbey, it’s best to treat House of Guinness as sci-fi or fantasy or a delightful hallucinatory cheese dream. To be honest, I’m a little sad that Knight doesn’t just claim the Guinness siblings include the craggy surfer, quirky dancing man and pelican from the iconic ads. Perhaps he does in later episodes.
Nonetheless, the all-human cast is very good. Anthony Boyle, Emily Fairn, Louis Partridge and Fionn O’Shea, as the Guinness sprogs, make the hardships of being incredibly wealthy but not immortal and omnipotent seem strangely relatable.
[ House of Guinness: Fact v fiction – Is the Netflix series historically accurate?Opens in new window ]
Danielle Galligan and Jack Gleeson, as Arthur’s beard and Edward’s US fixer, respectively, leave bite marks on all of the scenery and are definitely my favourite characters.
I also like James Norton as the Guinnesses’ foreman and fixer. He’s basically an evil, sexy version of Old Mr Brennan muttering eloquent threats in Dublinese and having sex with whichever member of the Guinness family asks him to. He’s fierce amenable, really.
The anachronistic music is fun: Lankum, Kneecap, The Mary Wallopers, Lisa O’Neill, The Stunning. The way English translations of what Irish-speakers say hammer on to the screen, comic-book style, is definitely more effective than my actual Irish-language education. CGI Dublin looks like a smoky video game that isn’t quite real, and this is, frankly, accurate.
Generally, it’s a good, raucous romp, and also what aficionados of costume dramas call sumptuous. Basically, that means it’s rich and thick, like some of the characters and a nice pint of Guinness or, indeed, Beamish.
Over on Now/Sky, Peacemaker is more a House of Buckfast kind of show. (This joke was stolen at about 10pm yesterday from Séamas O’Reilly.) From the pen and camera lens of James Gunn, director of the recent Superman film and the saviour of the DC cinematic universe, it is the filthy, funny and surprisingly warmhearted tale of an ultraviolent low-rent superhero called Peacemaker (John Cena), who makes terrible decisions.
In the current series he has been incuriously exploring an interdimensional portal that happens to be in his house and uses it to go to a world in which dead family members are still alive and where he is unaccountably seen as one of the nation’s premier heroes.
In what sort of world is Peacemaker considered a hero? Well, that’s ultimately what this season ends up exploring. If there’s any satire involved in this, it’s light on subtlety, but then there’s nothing subtle about the United States’ political trajectory.
Tom Lehrer’s recent death just reinforced the notion that satirising the Trump administration was no task for a sophisticate at a piano. The failure of partisan late-night talkshow hosts to even remotely grapple with rising fascism is also telling.
No, you sometimes need to fight crudity with crudity. To skewer incipient fascism in any way at all, you need a whole Southpark episode about how Donald Trump has small genitals. Or, indeed, a foul-mouthed, soft-rock-loving patriot with a propensity for often accidental ultraviolence. Peacemaker is cheap and sweet, like a nice bottle of Buckfast.
