Queen Charlotte TV review — glossy Bridgerton spin-off tackles race and mental illness

Next week, tens of millions will be tuning in to witness the most lavish, talked-about spectacle of the year — an event which marks a new chapter in the story of a beloved (if often derided) institution. It is, of course, the release of the Bridgerton spin-off series Queen Charlotte.

Unlike the two previous seasons of Netflix’s megahit period drama, which were based on Julia Quinn’s novels, this six-part digression offers an original story co-written by the series’ executive producer Shonda Rhimes. Setting the affairs of the Bridgerton clan aside, this prequel jumps back a few decades and follows the young Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz (India Amarteifio) who is brought to London to marry King George III (Corey Mylchreest).

Despite the focus on real figures, the show doubles down on its ahistorical vision in which society becomes stratified only by wealth and not by ethnic background. Alongside the usual pomp — bejewelled outfits, manicured settings, opulent balls — is an exploration of how the exclusive set became racially inclusive.

Diversity is no longer simply a matter of fact in this latest series, which plays with the (disproved) theory that Queen Charlotte was black. When she arrives from Germany she finds herself scrutinised like a prized mare by the court elders. Good hands, hips, teeth, they note, but there is consternation about her skin colour. The solution to this “problem”, they decide, is to open up high society to minorities. They call it, with cold haughtiness, “the great experiment”.

If the stakes of courtship in Bridgerton were individual happiness and family reputation, here the fate of every non-white person is tied up with Charlotte’s ability to prove herself as a wife fit for the king. Smart, punkish and self-possessed, she initially charms the latter not with docility but forthrightness. But after the wedding, the man who humbly introduced himself as “just George” turns into another person entirely: evasive, erratic and far more interested in the night skies than other worldly, heir-creating pleasures.

Those who enjoy Bridgerton’s sultrier moments will, rest assured, find delayed gratification. But if lust and lustre remain central in this spin-off, it does feel less frivolous and insular — not only in its approach to race and gender, but notably also in its depiction of mental illness, which takes this glossy series to some dark places. Where George III is often thought of as the “mad king”, here we see him as a tortured young man caught between lucidity and mania. At one point there’s a reference to King Lear, but it’s Hamlet who comes to mind in the various existential meditations.

Which is not to suggest that Queen Charlotte bears the weight of Shakespearean tragedy. Like Bridgerton, it is still high camp rather than high art; a show defined by plenty rather than refinement and nuance. But as an unabashed, undemanding crowd-pleaser it knows its audience and recognises that if it can broach some sensitive subjects alongside shots of shirtless hunks and corseted women, well, then, all the better.

★★★☆☆

On Netflix from May 4