Yes, I gathered that from the pre-publicity, Pete, and have refrained from watching. I have in fact learned over long years not to watch screen or stage adaptations of novels of which I am particularly fond. They never get then right. Esp, as here, when the work of the much-adulated but IMO absolute·kiss·of·death Andrew Davies, who, as I once said in a review (had to watch that time coz was working) suffers from the dire delusion that he can write better dialogue than Jane Austen and create better plots that Anthony Trollope -- as if!

The only exceptions were the much more sensitive adaptations of David Nokes, who made an astonishingly good fist of Richardson's Clarissa, which I should have thought the most intractable to adapt; he really caught the atmosphere of extreme deviousness on which that great work turns. & Dickens, sensitively adapted, can work now and again -- I recall a reasonable BBC Our Mutual Friend nearly 20 years ago.

≈M≈