The stakes in Tudor England were often remarkably simple, with death more of an imminent inevitability than a faraway, abstract concern. “If I’m not there to speak for the Cardinal,” Cromwell says to a confidant at one point, “they’ll kill him.” A sweating sickness decimates much of the population in the first episode. All the while, the king struts and frets like a 16th-century Vladimir Putin, eliminating those who fall out of favor and leaving little room for dialogue. Henry is not, as becomes immediately apparent, accustomed to hearing the word no, which is why the intractability of the Catholic Church makes it yet another enemy that needs to be disposed of, and Anne's refusal to surrender her virtue leaves the king so adamant he’s going to marry her. It’s also, the show suggests, why Cromwell becomes so intriguing to him. “You want a king to huddle indoors like a sick girl?” Henry asks, enraged by Cromwell’s resistance to invading France (at times, the dialogue does bear more than a hint of Monty Python). “A strong man acts within that which constrains him,” Cromwell replies, sphinx-like as ever in his utter fearlessness.

Historical dramas can often feel rote, and uninspired—just look at Downton Abbey’s half-hearted attempts to reference that nasty Mr. Hitler, or any other early 20th-century moments of import. The blessing of Wolf Hall, adapted by Peter Straughan and directed by Peter Kosminsky, is that the era it digests was fixated with power. It’s as much an analysis of politics as contemporary shows like House of Cards and Veep are, and Cromwell is shown to be a master manipulator, silencing a dinner party and embarrassing a French ambassador (Mathieu Amalric) before carelessly remarking, to no one in particular, “You must give me the recipe for this sauce.” Like any antihero worth watching, he has a tragic backstory. At one moment, the camera lingers on a bloodstain on the cobblestones, suggesting it’s the residue from a brutal beating he took as a child, but he’s nevertheless a loving and patient father, encouraging his daughters to learn Greek and Latin, and telling one that she can marry whom she wants, “within reason.”

The historical accuracy of Mantel’s story might be a matter of dispute, but no one can argue that it makes for infinitely compelling drama. That in itself might be enough for a successful adaptation, but Kosmisky adds layers upon layers of visual and aural depth. As Cromwell stalks the hallways of Esher Place (once Wolsey’s residence, now commandeered so Anne can have a London address), he’s accompanied by the sounds of strings and flutes, sometimes for dramatic effect, and sometimes because he encounters a lute player entertaining Lady Anne. The sets are also immaculately conceived, from the tapestries at court to the manicured gardens in which Cromwell and Henry finally meet. The attention to detail is lavish, to say the least, but not mindlessly prepossessing—ugliness and puritanical simplicity are as important to the storytelling as each individual jewel attached to Anne’s neckline.