Bursting with sibling rivalry, seduction, cuckoldry, betrayal and other such hey nonny nonny, Philippa Gregory’s 16th century shenanigan is effectively Coronation Street with nicer houses and shinier knockers.

Taking as many liberties with history as Henry VIII took with his wedding vows, it’s the little-known (i.e. made-up) story of how noblewoman Mary Boleyn was usurped in the head Tudor’s affections by her scheming older sister Anne.

With Queen Katherine (of Aragon) unable to bear children, Sir Thomas Boleyn (Rylance) and his bullying brother-in-law the Duke of Norfolk (David Morrissey) aim to curry favour at court by pimping Anne to the king.

Young, feisty, eligible, and looking like Natalie Portman, she has everything that a roving-eyed monarch could desire.

But to everyone’s vexation, Henry (Bana) is more taken with Mary, despite the fact that she is already married and, as played by Scarlett Johansson, mouth-breathingly dull.

No matter - Mary is soon in the royal family way while her understandably miffed sister is packed off to France. But bed-ridden Mary is helpless when Anne returns to launch everything in her feminine armoury at horny Henry.

Her scheme works a little too well. Because while Mary and her illegitimate son are left by the wayside and Henry agrees to divorce, the rest of the England is not impressed by the woman who would have their king break with the Catholic Church.

It doesn’t take Simon Schama to know where this might beheading.

Backed by the BBC, this is the sort of beautifully staged, HD-ready period piece that has the Sunday night TV crowd in raptures while making history students choke on their quills.

Dialogue in the first half-hour is almost pure exposition with characters sounding as though they’re reading their own entries on Wikipedia.

It’s also clear that the racier elements (namely homosexuality and incest) have been omitted/softened so’s not to offend middle America.

But when Peter Morgan’s script settles down, it makes for a juicy Tudor soap opera, even brings in a dash of proto-feminism via the girls’ impotently raging mother (Kristin Scott Thomas).

The acting is mixed. Sparky Portman nicely counters Johansson’s dead weight but Morrissey chews so much scenery you can see varnish on his teeth and Bana does little but glower, gnaw on his knuckles and expose those ripped abs for which Henry was renowned.

Like HBO’s The Tudors, the depiction of Henry as a tasty bit of trouser doesn’t really work. History demands a Ray Winstone (as in Morgan’s 2003 two-parter Henry VIII), or a Philip Seymour Hoffman. Or even a Sid James.

But director Chadwick, building on the pedigree he showed with the BBC adap of Dickens’ Bleak House, efficiently pulls it together with all the right period trappings.

Worthy of thine attention? Corset is.

Elliott Noble