Once upon a time, horny teenagers poured over D.H.Lawrence’s text for the dirty bits. If you couldn’t get a hold of Playboy, a lusty lady boning her sweaty gamekeeper was a good second best. Then internet porn changed everything – well, not quite. Pascale Ferran still found some mileage in the old man and managed a four hour mini-series set in rural France. Well, kind of. Although Lady Chatterly is set in England, she employs French villages, locations and language to tackle the heady business of animal instinct and social propriety. Trimmed for theatre release, this refined epic does it in French, which makes it seem loftier, and sets it in England, which makes it accurate. What it isn’t, is exciting.

Sir Clifford’s wartime service robbed him of the use of his legs and less of a man than Lady Constance Chatterly signed on for. When she spots their gamekeeper washing in the woods, this chance encounter stirs her womanly needs and when he makes his move, Constance doesn’t resist. So begins an earnest, clandestine affair that rearranges the social and sexual order. It even emboldens Lady Chatterly to offer Sir Clifford an heir.

Lawrence was, in some regards, a feminist author and it is this line that Ferran exploits. She makes a bold case and is ably supported by her watchable leads; Hands is especially effective as Constance. Yet she also adopts a distant, voyeuristic approach that, over 168 measured minutes, significantly drains emotion and pace from the production. A century of social change has not made her task any easier. Not without its moments, Lady Chatterly is a long slog that feels every bit the cutdown TV production it is. While Joanna Lumley’s 1970’s soft-porn adaptation doesn’t attempt to scale these heights, it is mercifully shorter. And sexier.

// COLIN FRASER