It takes ten hour-long episodes of Netflix’s eagerly awaited new royal drama The Crown to cover the Queen’s reign from 1951 to 1955. So you can see it doesn’t exactly zip along.

But perhaps this spectacular £100million production’s lack of narrative pace is a disarmingly accurate reflection of life at Buckingham Palace. Slow. Chronicling the wonderful world of cutting ribbons and protocol in such intricate detail was never going to be a roller-coaster ride.

Fascinating that the Windsors (Elizabeth, Barbara etc.) were so much more important to the nation back then. We took them terribly seriously. The fact that they were even called Windsor was because in the wake of World War II, Mountbatten was way too German. This caused a crisis. The words storm and teacup spring to mind.

Poor Phil, thwarted at every turn by his sovereign wife. Forced to abandon his surname, his Naval career, his independence, his freedom, his purpose. With nothing to do, the man was emasculated. No wonder he took to hanging out with his mates. When he decided to learn to be a pilot, this again caused major consternation for the government. In the end Winston Churchill’s cabinet allowed the flying lessons… but banned all aerobatics. Ludicrous.

Cut to those comparatively carefree days before the death of her chain-smoking father King George and here’s Princess Elizabeth on safari in Kenya during her first official tour. Just behind her as she meets local dignitaries is foot-in-mouth Phil saying all the wrong, insulting things. Examining a splendidly turned-out tribal chief’s war medal, the Duke asks him: “Where did you steal that from?” An early example of the borderline racist howlers that were to become his trademark.

Some of the scenes are laugh-out-loud absurd. A transparently-trained elephant faux-charging the royal couple with Liz running for the safety of the Treetops Hotel while hero Phil distracts it by jumping up and down with his rifle. Just for once, he passes up the chance to shoot an animal dead. As a rule, our royals are never happier than when they’re filling wildlife full of lead. The whole sequence is cartoon funny. But not in a good way. The Nelly The Elephant music should have been playing in the background.

Now over to CSI Buckingham Palace for the operation to remove one of George’s cancerous lungs and an opportunity to watch the surgery in loving gory close up. And there it is… the royal lung on a steel tray. Cool.

One of the problems with our first family back then is they were major nicotine addicts. The cigarettes not only did for Liz’s dad (40 a day) but also her granny, Queen Mary (lit up in bed). In real life be in no doubt that the Queen and her reserved relatives, doyennes of the British stiff upper lip, greeted these tragedies with quiet dignity. In The Crown they run around the Palace shouting and screaming like emotionally incontinent dervishes. In front of the servants. As if.

Beautifully shot, the leisurely action drifts between sick sovereigns, shooting parties as George, Phil and their chums massacre ducks, glamorous foreign locations and the stuffy corridors of no real power at the royals’ various grace and favour stately homes. Zig-zagging back and forth through time we follow Her Maj’s life from her education-free childhood to the shock moment when her Kenyan odyssey was cut short by her father’s sudden demise. Expected by him but not by his distraught daughter daunted by the terrifying prospect of her coronation.

At first, I found this extraordinarily lavish production to be my least moreish Netflix experience ever. Really couldn’t get into the pea-souper saga which brought smog-ridden London to a standstill in 1952. Hardly seemed like a milestone in Elizabeth’s reign. And although John Lithgow’s shuffling portrayal of ancient Prime Minister Winston Churchill was characteristically excellent, devoting an entire episode to the great man’s dislike of artist Graham Sutherland’s official portrait was over the top and rather irrelevant.

But the more you watch The Crown the more it sucks you in. By the seventh instalment I knew I was in it for the duration. Especially because by then there was less Churchill and more Margaret, the Queen’s maverick little sister whose affair with a married man gripped the nation. After Group Captain Peter Townsend divorced, the Queen assumed it was fine and dandy for her fun-loving sibling (another heavy smoker) to tie the knot. Enter the Archbishop of Canterbury and his ecclesiastical pals to tell her she was wrong. Romance over and out.

During one of their dashes to the country the controversial couple are suddenly surrounded by speeding cars full of Fleet Street photographers risking life and limb to take their intrusive pictures. Reminiscent of Princess Di’s fatal paparazzi chase in Paris. But, sadly, total fabrication. This sort of thing simply didn’t happen in the 1950s. But the first rule of television dramas is that all journalists are moronic, heartless and horrible. How very dare they!

As the monarch at the centre of the epic story, Claire Foy is magnificent. Clipped accent, somewhat detached, in control, authoritative. Playing the permanently frustrated Philip, former Doctor Who Matt Smith delivers a powerhouse performance, right down to the mannerisms. Why does he walk with his hands behind his back? Ditto Charles? Answers on a postcard please. And in Vanessa Kirby – who plays the unhappy Princess Margaret – a star is born.

Also worthy of mention are Jared Harris as George and Eileen Atkins as his cigarette-chugging mother Mary. Not forgetting Victoria Hamilton as the Queen Mother and Alex Jennings as abdicating King Edward who is despised and exiled for his dereliction of royal duty.

After five hours, whisper it quietly, I was a tad bored. After eight, I was hooked. Naturally, it should play well among HRH's loyal subjects in the UK. But the global appeal of the British royal soap opera should guarantee strong numbers all over the world, particularly in Donald Trump's brave new America. Whether this audacious exercise will justify Netflix's astonishing £100million investment remains to be seen. But you have to admire this ambitious company's big-thinking courage.

Now roll on series two, which, one hopes, will pick up the pace a bit. I mean, there are still more than 60 years to go. So for God's sake get on with it.