Fackham Hall: Downton Abbey After a Head Injury

There are films that strive to be subtle, nuanced, and clever. And then there is Fackham Hall, which bursts through the door like a drunk uncle at Christmas, knocks over the sherry, insults the dog, and farts loudly in the general direction of period drama.

And thank heavens for that.

Fackham Hall is, quite clearly, a vicious, unapologetic parody of Downton Abbey and every single stiff-upper-lip, tea-sipping, “golly gosh the help are revolting” costume drama ever inflicted upon Sunday evenings. It does not wink. It does not nod. It kicks the genre squarely in the corset and keeps kicking until something expensive breaks.

The plot—if we’re being wildly generous—is that posh people live in a very posh house, say very posh things, and behave like utter lunatics. The servants, meanwhile, are just as unhinged, which is refreshing, because normally they’re portrayed as noble, long-suffering saints. Here, they’re idiots too. Equality at last.

Visually, the film looks exactly like a prestige ITV drama. Sweeping shots of stately homes, lavish costumes, immaculate lawns. This is crucial, because it means when someone delivers a line so stupid it sounds like it was written during a mild concussion, the contrast is glorious. It’s like watching the Queen’s Guard suddenly break into interpretive dance.

The jokes are broad. Enormous. You can see them coming from several miles away, waving flags and shouting, “THIS IS A JOKE.” And yet—annoyingly—they often still land. There’s slapstick, innuendo, absurd dialogue, and moments so childish you feel slightly ashamed for laughing. Slightly. Not enough to stop.

Some critics will say it’s too silly. These critics are wrong and should be forced to watch six consecutive hours of serious period drama where nothing happens except meaningful looks over teacups. Fackham Hall exists precisely because we’ve had too much reverence, too much hushed admiration for people whose biggest problem is which fork to use while the rest of the country is freezing and broke.

The performances are committed, which is the polite way of saying everyone throws themselves into the madness like they’ve been told their careers depend on it. Nobody phones it in. Nobody tries to be cleverer than the script. This is important. Comedy like this only works if the actors believe every ridiculous word they’re saying. And they do. Completely.

Is it high art? No.
Is it subtle satire? Absolutely not.
Is it funny? Yes. Frequently. Sometimes alarmingly so.

What Fackham Hall understands—unlike many modern comedies—is that parody doesn’t need to apologise. It doesn’t need to explain itself. It just needs to take something everyone recognises, remove its dignity, and set fire to it while laughing.

In an age where films are terrified of offending anyone, Fackham Hall cheerfully offends everyone equally. Aristocrats, servants, traditions, accents, and the very idea that British history was ever particularly noble. That alone deserves a slow clap.

So no, this is not a film you’ll watch to feel cultured. You will not emerge feeling enriched, enlightened, or emotionally fulfilled. You will, however, laugh at things you know you shouldn’t, snort at least once, and briefly feel better about the world.

And frankly, that’s far more useful.

Verdict:
Like Downton Abbey falling down the stairs after twelve pints.
★★★★☆