Britain’s Granada TV brought Evelyn Waugh’s inter-war tale of upper class decadence and dysfunction to the small screen in a lavish production in 1981. Set against a backdrop of glamorous locations and well-appointed mansions, the series followed the life and loves of Captain Charles Ryder (Jeremy Irons).

And we were barely into the first ten minutes of Episode One when it seemed that the first recipient of Captain Ryder’s affections was to be the cute but dizzy Lord Sebastian Flyte (Anthony Andrews).

It was all very restrained, of course. Very British. The only thing that ever seemed to get stiff was the upper lip.

Not that that stopped some self-appointed moral guardians decrying it as a televisual Sodom and Gomorrah – especially when it was broadcast on public networks in various countries. Of course it was nothing of the sort (although we all watched hopefully, just in case!)

Dreamy glances were as far as they ever got: nothing as tawdry as a peck on the cheek – or anywhere else for that matter.

And then when Charles finally did get down to a bit of rumpy-pumpy it was with Sebastian’s sister, Julia! Meanwhile, Sebastian was left to fester away into alcoholic oblivion in a seedy Moroccan garret. It all sounds like the plot of a Pedro Almodovar movie!

Sadly the comparison ends there. Almodovar would have had them getting their kit off every five minutes, with unbridled passion oozing from every single shot.

Brideshead, on the other hand, was very British – and very Catholic. Passion – especially the ‘ungodly’ one – was generally denied or frustrated. No one lived happily ever after – presumably because they were all saving themselves for a happily ever hereafter.

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