And Jericho is laughably grim, packed with northern miserablism as the mine explodes, infection strikes and generally everyone gets muck all over them. Except the prostitutes, bosoms hoiked to eye level (theirs), who wear some fabulous gowns.
Then there’s the bloody music, overpoweringly insisting on telling you how to feel – jaunty fiddle-type tunes for happiness, plangent stuff for sadness. OK, give it a rest, I can make up my own mind, thank you. And what are we to make of Clarke Peters as American railroad man Ralph Coates, who seems to have wandered in from The High Chaparral.
I really do, genuinely, like epics of sweep and scale, yet Jericho just doesn’t convince me. It feels too small, too parochial, as the little, often clichéd human dramas threaten to swamp the much bigger picture of social upheaval and unimagined change. And then there are those plaits…
Jericho continues on ITV at 9pm on ITV