TV Miniseries: Where bad writers go to die

Movie adaptations of books used to be funny to me. They were the stuff of Keira Knightly, hilarious wardrobes and soft-focus lenses. Oh how I used to laugh pityingly at the incensed, teeth-gnashing mobs. "She didn't say that!" or "They fucking skipped the only scene that mattered!" they shouted whilst ugly crying. At the time their outrage seemed excessive, the product of foolishness and female hysteria.That was all before I witnessed the butchering of my guilty pleasure read, "Fingersmith". (Insert sexual lesbian joke here)

Seriously though, it's a lesbian romance novel based in old time-y England. Yes there is sexy times and no they aren't described in deliciously explicit detail.
So you can imagine how excited I was to discover that there had been a miniseries adaptation. Soft core lesbian action! What could go wrong? But wading through the youtube episodes entitled "Double Entendre (Spanish Subtitles)", I watched with mounting horror as all of the painstakingly subtle storytelling was replaced with moron talk. Suddenly I knew exactly how those angry zealots felt. Maud was supposed to be aloof and proud! But the hussy onscreen was declaring her feelings aloud! (Like a common asshole, like a peasant) And Sue, my god. She was written to be quick-thinking and reserved but the actress portraying her looked and acted this side of retarded. The only redeeming feature of that lazy abomination was the sex scenes and even those were terrible. Sort of.

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Indulge me for a moment. (forever?)
Whilst heating some post-workout soup, my gaze fell on my misshapen ceramic reliquary. Though grostesque and crudely rendered, it managed to be gaudy and overly dramatic. It might interest you to know (see how I lie to us both?) that it was created as a symbol of my swift marriage and equally swift divorce. But its appearance hinted at something more pernicious than a retard's artistic abilities. It was like discovering the radio static from the big bang. Looking at that godawful red and gold piece of crap, it dawned on me that it stood for more than my failed marriage; it was testament to a life built on half-assery.
Sorry, self. I've failed you. But at least your mom likes it.