Perhaps its his taste for glittery funereal knick-knacks. Or his fabulous death mask, which became one of the world's most famous museum exhibits. Let's be honest, if Tut weren't the posterboy for ancient history, he'd be on the lead parade float at Mardi Gras. Or doing windows for Barneys in New York.

Tutankhamun (SBS, Wednesdays, 8.30pm) tries to set itself up as factual drama, a sort of turgid stepchild of the History channel, in which the factual details sit alongside a freshly whipped up romance between    archaeologist Howard Carter (Max Irons) and Evelyn Carnarvon (Amy Wren), the daughter of his backer Lord Carnarvon (Sam Neill).

This is something of a bone which history (and the Carnarvon family) want to pick with the producers of Tutankhamun. The latter insist there is some suggestion it's true. The family insist its poppycock, crafted to give this four-part drama a little injection of romantic adrenalin.

In one sense, Tutmania was a sort of early 20th-century phenomenon, fuelled by lurid news headlines about buried treasure and curses. Interest was revived in the '70s and '80s, extending to a make-up style of lapis lazuli-coloured eyeshadow and thick black eyeliner; which is still going strong in daytime soap opera.

It plays obviously into the TV bodice-ripping genre, a sort of cousin to Downton Abbey, and The Crown, Netflix's upcoming royal soap which hopes to exploit that world as well.

Think lots of starched cravats, lace umbrellas, proper old Rolls-Royce cars and women with names such as Miss Honeyhives. (What you won't see is Highclere​ Castle, Carnarvon's real-life family pile, as that is now more famously known as Downton Abbey.)

Though Irons' Carter is ostensibly the star of the piece, it is Neill's Lord Carnarvon who seems to shine more brightly, perhaps because he is simply a more interesting man, and perhaps because Neill is such a naturally diverting presence in front of the camera, it's hard to take your eyes off him.

In the re-created bustling streets of Cairo, Neill's Carnarvon has echoes of Denholm Elliott's Marcus Brody from the Indiana Jones films; a quintessential Englishman battling the dust and demons of an unholy land in search of a treasure that will knit his name to a divine legacy.

It's hard not to love him, and Neill, brilliantly, elevates the material he's given. Irons is also something of a discovery. The clue is in the name: he is the son of actor Jeremy Irons. And with his neatly combed hair he is equal parts Allan Quatermain and Indiana Jones.

The scales do tilt a little hard towards soap.  The narrative is driven as much by the romantic details as the historical story of the men who unearthed the greatest Egyptian treasure trove in history and wrote for themselves a legend that survives to this day.

But you have to forgive it a little, and maybe go along with the intended plan: to lose yourself in a story that evokes an era of high adventure and mystical discovery.