Mark Koyama argues that the recent television adaptation of The Mirror and the Light fails not because of poor acting, but because it flattens the brutal political economy of Tudor England into a personal drama, obscuring the very mechanisms that built the modern state. By focusing on the interiority of Thomas Cromwell rather than the systemic violence of the Dissolution of the Monasteries or the ruthless elimination of the old nobility, the series misses a crucial opportunity to explain how meritocratic state-building often requires terrifying cruelty. This is a vital distinction for anyone trying to understand the origins of modern bureaucracy, as Koyama suggests we cannot separate the rise of the efficient state from the blood spilled to create it.
The Limits of Prestige History
Koyama begins by challenging the notion that the "age of prestige TV" has been a golden age for historical understanding. He observes that while production values are high, the genre often fails to grapple with the complex forces of geopolitics and economics. "Geopolitics, economics, religion and strategy are not investigated in detail," he writes. "When they are depicted, they are flattened into personal antagonisms." This critique is sharp and necessary; it points out that modern audiences are often fed a diet of "antihero" narratives where personal trauma explains political outcomes, rather than structural shifts. The show, he argues, falls into the trap of humanizing Cromwell too much, turning a master strategist into a Tony Soprano-style figure driven by a need for love rather than a cold calculus of power.
The author notes that the series spends excessive time on Cromwell's relationships with vulnerable women and his own daughter, scenes that, while emotionally compelling, "restrict the scope of the historic drama being depicted." This framing choice effectively narrows the lens, making the fall of a great administrator seem like a personal tragedy rather than the inevitable result of a ruthless political machine. Koyama suggests that by focusing on the man, the show ignores the machine he built.
"The antihero who commits terrible crimes but also loves and wishes to be worthy of love is a mainstay of modern fiction – think Tony Soprano."
Critics might argue that a television series must prioritize character development to engage a general audience, and that deep dives into fiscal policy or religious strategy would alienate viewers. However, Koyama's point stands that the Mirror and the Light had the budget and talent to do better, yet chose the safer, more conventional path of personal melodrama.
The Mechanics of Betrayal and State Building
The core of Koyama's argument lies in the "Missed Opportunity" to depict the true nature of Cromwell's inner circle. The show portrays the betrayal of Cromwell by men like Richard Rich and Thomas Wriothesley as a reluctant, tragic necessity of the court. Koyama vehemently disagrees, noting that these men were not merely products of a corrupt system but active agents of its worst impulses. He describes Richard Rich as the "arch-villain of Tudor history," a man who rose by testifying against Thomas More and later persecuted Protestants with equal fervor.
The author highlights a specific historical horror that the show glosses over: the torture of Anne Askew. "Rich and Wriothesley are among the most repellent and scheming individuals in Tudor history," Koyama writes, noting they were "most notorious for personally racking Anne Askew in the Tower of London until her limbs were pulled from their sockets." By softening these characters, the adaptation misses a profound insight into authoritarianism. Koyama connects this to F.A. Hayek's thesis that in totalitarian systems, "the worst get on top." This is not just a historical observation; it is a warning about the nature of power itself. When a state relies on ruthless efficiency, it naturally selects for the most unscrupulous individuals to run it.
"It is not simply that they are men corrupted by the system; rather they are further evidence for F.A. Hayek's thesis about authoritarian or totalitarian government — that the 'worst get on top'."
The argument here is that the show's failure to depict the true villainy of Cromwell's lieutenants sanitizes the process of state-building. It suggests that the modern state emerged from noble intentions and administrative brilliance, rather than from a process of "negative selection" where the most dangerous men rose to the top.
The Unseen Cost of the Dissolution
Perhaps the most damning critique Koyama offers is the show's treatment of the Dissolution of the Monasteries. This event, which Koyama describes as a "shockwave shared countrywide" comparable to the Black Death, is reduced to a background detail. The series shows Cromwell reassuring an Abbess that the changes will be minor, but fails to explore the reality: the systematic dismantling of a vast religious and economic infrastructure.
The author points out that the show completely omits the popular reaction to these policies, specifically the Pilgrimage of Grace. "The rebellions in the north of England against Henry and Cromwell's policies occur offscreen," Koyama notes. This omission is significant because it hides the human cost of the state's expansion. The rebellion was met with brutal repression, including the execution of hundreds of rebels by being "hanged in chains," a method that could take days to kill. Cromwell was directly involved in constructing the legal cases against these rebels, yet the show keeps this violence at arm's length.
"The scale of the disruption is not shown and Cromwell's part in this revolutionary episode is consequently under-explored."
This framing choice effectively erases the suffering of the common people who were displaced, executed, or starved as a result of the state's consolidation of power. Koyama argues that by focusing solely on Cromwell's fate, the show obscures the fate of his victims, including the Pole family, whose destruction was a necessary step in eliminating the old nobility. The show's reluctance to show the blood on Cromwell's hands makes it a poor guide to understanding the true nature of the Tudor revolution.
"The TV show's relentless focus on Cromwell's fate obscures that of his victims."
Cromwell and the Modern State
In his conclusion, Koyama synthesizes these points to address the broader question of how we view the origins of the modern state. He references Geoffrey Elton's classic theory of the "Tudor Revolution in Government," which posits that Cromwell was a master bureaucrat who built a state based on legal supremacy and parliamentary cooperation. Koyama agrees that Cromwell was a figure of modernity, embodying meritocracy, secularization, and the rise of a stronger state. However, he insists that this modernity came at a terrible price.
The author argues that Cromwell was an "avatar of modernity" who was "terrifying." He notes that while Cromwell could be charming and intellectually curious, he was also the architect of a system that required the ruthless elimination of opposition. "Like the French Revolution then, where one stands on Cromwell sheds interesting light on one's broader ideological commitments," Koyama writes. This is a powerful closing thought: our interpretation of Cromwell reveals our own views on whether the ends of state-building justify the brutal means.
"He could be terrifying . . ."
The piece suggests that we cannot celebrate the efficiency of the modern state without acknowledging the violence that forged it. To view Cromwell merely as a tragic hero is to ignore the reality that his "state capacity" was built on the backs of the executed, the displaced, and the betrayed.
Bottom Line
Koyama's critique is a necessary corrective to the romanticized view of state-building often found in popular media, forcing readers to confront the brutal reality that the modern administrative state was forged in blood. While the argument relies heavily on historical detail that may feel dense to some, its central thesis—that we cannot separate the rise of effective governance from the "negative selection" of its most ruthless agents—is compelling and urgent. The biggest vulnerability of the argument is its assumption that a mass-market TV show could successfully depict the complex economic and religious shifts of the 16th century without losing its audience, but the failure to even attempt it remains a significant missed opportunity for public understanding.