The Thirteenth Tale

The novel may have been a bestseller in 2006, but we'd neither of us heard of it, so we waited in vain for a haunting, or something even vaguely creepy to happen, but this was very much a cosy-slipper affair - familiar gothic/psychological thriller territory - and not much more than an ok way to spend 90 minutes of post-Christmas torpor.

Olivia Colman reprises her blunt, out of her depth role, here as biographer Margaret Lea, who visits ailing writer Vida Winter (Vanessa Redgrave with startling Titian tresses) in her country pile to hear the titular 13th tale.  This turns out to involve another country pile nearby, the crumbling Angelfield, sibling incest, insanity, suicide, murder and red-haired twin girls who reminded us disturbingly of those in 'The Shining'.  Perhaps the novel is more artfully constructed, but the television adaptation could have been the result of throwing du Maurier, the Brontes, Collins et al into a pot and seeing what was cooked up.  Yes, it was written by Christopher Hampton, but... he remains best known for something he adapted over 25 years ago.  1950s Yorkshire, we suspect, was unlikely to be a place of total isolation for these characters for years on end.  Who'd have thought that 'Heartbeat' could compare favourably in the reality stakes?  Margaret has previously written a biography of the Brontes, but doesn't seem to recognise Yorkshire, unless Hampton couldn't think of a subtler way to signpost the Moors to us.

The twist in the tale is not particularly satisfying, and instead throws up more questions, like a 'Midsomer Murders' story in overdrive, and the wholly unnecessary hint of romance for Margaret with the doctor (Steven Mackintosh) at the end just brings the whole thing down to the level of chick-lit with a kink.  Bit of a waste of a talented cast.  Speaking of which, we're hoping Emily Beecham gets to play someone sane and Tom Goodman-Hill someone other than a faithless rotter in the near future, for their sakes.

The Village

Peter Moffat gave us 'Criminal Justice' (good) and 'Silk' (formulaic soap set in well-trodden ground of legal chambers) so our approach to this was neutral.  Episode one of six - or possibly forty-two, if successful - introduces Bert now, as a very old man, reminiscing about his life in a Derbyshire village.  In 1914 he's a boy of twelve with a violent alcoholic father (John Simm) and a downtrodden mother (Maxine Peake), an older brother about to go to war and his first crush on a suffragist rector's daughter who's just arrived in the village.

'Downton Abbey' it's not, to dispel any notions of 'BBC's answer to...', but it's also not shaping up to be a British version of the German classic, 'Heimat'.  Life in the village is grim for young Bert.  When not getting bullied at home he's getting literally rapped over the knuckles at school, for being left-handed.  His older brother Joe fares little better in his job at the Big House, where he has every class-difference stereotype hurled at his amiable head.  Moffat seems to suffer from the same inability to write convincing upper-class characters as afflicts Mike Leigh.  There is a dinner-table discussion of women's rights that is reminiscent of Poliakoff at his recent worst.  Martha, the new arrival in the village, seems to be everything to everyone, and Bert spies on her in a village bath house which provides a handy gossiping ground for the women.  (Were they only allowed an hour in it per week?  Otherwise, their convergence must be due to female intuition.)

The village goes to war at the end of the episode, so let's hope it continues to not be the BBC's answer to 'Downton Abbey' in war cliches, at least....

The Fear

We liked and liked a lot.  Strange scheduling over four consecutive nights, but at least sensibly post-watershed considering the violence, sex and swearing.

It started with a cliched premise: old gangster losing his grip, Albanians who can trump his violence, sons who are loose canon, a wife he's emotionally estranged from, a guilty secret from the past.  It did what good drama should do, though, and engaged with a good script, fine performances and enough interesting plot developments to keep viewers hooked.

We know Brighton, and the seriously strange twists of fate that have befallen the West Pier, so this had extra appeal.  It also meant, though, that the shootout in the streets was a little TWNH.  No-one would say there's no serious crime in Brighton - Graham Greene and a long line of news reports put paid to that - but a Chicago-style gun-fest?  After all the bodies, all connected with Richie (Peter Mullan) and his family, you'd have thought that the police would be a little more interested in his home, family and business, rather than just turning up and asking the odd question, but these are minor detractions from a stylish gangster thriller that has family sorrow and the consequences of moral poverty at its heart.