Lost Empires treacled on its way with a bad case of repetition-compulsion. Once again, Tommy Beamish importuned the French housemaid with his bag of plumber’s tricks; once again, raucous theatricals did themselves very nicely, thank you, at table; and yet again, Richard Herncastle was asked, ‘Don’t you know anything about women?’  Come the end roller, breaking the mould, young Richard had indeed learnt a thing or three, and we had been treated to a glimpse of Miss Julie Blaine as nature intended.

This serial is certainly proving that you can keep an audience in its collective armchair if you chuck enough décor at it (designers: Roy Stonehouse, David Buxton), but in amongst the plush and brass, its dramatic values are those of a soap opera with a muddy undercurrent of finite narrative. The spoken narrative continues to irritate, and Brian Glover’s chip-fat voice continues to strike the most authentic note. One can probably manage to hold out until next week to discover the mechanics of Uncle Nick’s threatened two-dwarf effect.
 

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