Midsomer Mundanity

This Wednesday, for the first time ever, I found I had no desire at all to watch Midsomer Murders. I elected instead to record it, feeling that I was perhaps obliged to watch it at some later date so as not to reveal any inconsistency in my character. Previously, I had moaned whenever I found out that I was missing it or that it had been replaced by football coverage. Having stripped the college DVD library of all (7) episodes that it contained, I stacked them proudly by my pint in the bar and primly defended my choice of entertainment by asserting that I was “practising being middle-aged”, and was, in fact, ahead of the game. But now I am suddenly finding it very difficult to care. This is to do neither with the change in protagonist (John Nettle's affable DCI Tom Barnaby has been replaced by Neil Dudgeon's equally well-acted DCI John Barnaby) nor with the racism row that erupted over casting choices earlier this year. Quite simply, in its 14^th year, the series has gone on too long and, for want of a facelift, the strain is showing. The easy charm and mild intrigue of earlier series has faded to give way to a sameness. The acting is inoffensive but utterly bland, often through no fault of the actors, but rather due to an inability to create a dialogue, direction or style which can keep up with the increasingly exotic, or rather, mad plot lines. The writers have by now mined the very depths not just of traditional motives but also of folk traditions, local myth and pagan potential perhaps in keeping with the endearingly mad spirit of Glastonbury but hardly representative of the West Country as a whole. This need not in itself be a bad thing, but the programme frequently lacks the slightly more tongue-in-cheek style more evident in earlier series which proves necessary to let the audience buy into such themes comfortably.

Relief was often offered before in the form of wry or I-know-it's-bad-but-it's-still-funny comments made by DCI Tom Barnaby or, for example, in Troy's behaviour around Cully Barnaby (inexplicably reminding me of Bambi) but is sadly lacking later on. Last week's episode (The Night of the Stag) started off well enough – body in a vat of cider – but quickly deteriorated into a farce of misogynistic tribal attitudes and the frankly ridiculous sight of male characters traipsing around the countryside dressed as deer to take advantage of their neighbours' women. This story was executed awkwardly either because all involved succumbed to the need to take it seriously or because they shied away from allowing the psychological and emotional motives to manifest themselves fully. Echoes of the Dead (S14E3) suffered precisely from the second of the above issues; a religious man decides to murder people whom he considers to have acted immorally, but the inability of both the actor and the director to do justice to the complexity of this motivation whilst believing in it utterly left the episode somewhat limp. By eschewing both humour and horror (as well as embracing a sadly dull display of direction) it failed to create any sense of freshness or engagement, which is so vital when a show has been running this long, and has to overcome transitional difficulties which arise in the change of protagonist.

We have never been led to expect a big reveal à la Christie/Conan Doyle or the forensic exploration of CSI or the grittiness of the superb Scott & Bailey which stood out magnificently this year from other detective dramas by creating its own path. But we have been led to expect if not great cerebral stimulation something more than 'inoffensive'. But never fear, I have a plan: When Simon Pegg Met Midsomer. You may say that Hot Fuzz has already got that covered, but the possibilities are endless ...

Review: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

I was fortunate enough to see Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy at the Cast & Crew screening the weekend before it premièred in the UK, which means, of course, that this review is somewhat belated. However, in anticipation of going to see the film a second time later this week, it seemed a good time to explain precisely why this film is worth the second visit.

Spending the last five minutes of a film valiantly fighting tears is hardly a novel experience but I have never before had to do it simply because of the sheer beauty and triumph of a film. Looking at the film, perhaps it seems odd to talk of beauty; tonally, the piece is a palette of shadows, grey and neutral, from the clothes (with the notable exception of the rather natty threads of Peter Guillam, played by a superb Benedict Cumberbatch) to the locations and right on through to George Smiley himself. Colourless and undefined, Gary Oldman's Smiley becomes part of the wallpaper, a perfect spy. What is beautiful, then, is Tomas Alfredson's aesthetic. As with his masterful Let The Right One In he brings a sense of aesthetic indulgence to Tinker Tailor, focusing on the path of a drop of sweat, a hand, a long shot of Smiley walking. It's never rushed – indeed, there's a significant wait before Smiley even utters a full sentence – and these moments come together piece by piece to explain a whole such as the ordinariness of a spy or the nerves of a waiter. Only once or twice, very briefly, does a shot become a little self-indulgent, but even when moving at its slowest it is utterly engaging. Alfredson exercises absolute mastery over his direction, instinctively knowing how to construct a narrative through his aesthetic and how to engage an audience both viscerally and intellectually without ever patronising, compromising or resorting to large loud explosions.

Large loud explosions do, of course, have their place in films. Whilst the 'more is more' ethos of Michael Bay's films perhaps constitutes an abuse of the film-maker's right to use them, they are a thrilling and bombastically fun part of the Bond and Bourne legacies. Nevertheless, even there they are incapable of delivering a truly visceral impact as gunshots are dwarfed by bigger explosions, which are subsumed by even larger set-pieces. A gunshot has little meaning and certainly does not on an empathetic level. Alfredson's moderation, however, and his ability to create suspense and invoke a truly empathetic response in his audience resurrects our understanding of the violent finality of the gunshot. The sharp crack across the shades of grey impacts on the gut and the mind, not just on the cornea.

But this alone would not constitute a great film were the acting not also there. Fortunately, it is and in spades. This role has provoked an Oscar buzz around the always excellent Oldman. He is phenomenal – restrained and wry, a spider quietly and inconspicuously setting up his trap. His re-enaction with an empty chair of his interrogation of the faceless, shadowy Karla is a highlight of the film. Nevertheless, this film was never meant to be a one-hander. It is an ensemble piece and my word, what an ensemble it is. A great performance can be understood as one where, as a critical audience member, you find that there is not a single gesture, pause or articulation you would change. To get this level of authenticity in the performance of one actor is impressive; to get it in the work of an entire ensemble is something quite extraordinary. Mark Strong as the crippled and quietly devastating Prideaux has never been better. Colin Firth continues to build on his success of recent years by capturing the precise charm, spirit, and motivation of Haydon. Kathy Burke, Toby Jones, John Hurt, Ciarán Hinds, and David Dencik all excel equally. My only complaint that Burke's Connie Sachs and Dencik's nervous Esterhase do not get nearly the amount of screen time they deserve. Particular praise, however, must go to the 'young' members of the cast, Benedict Cumberbatch and Tom Hardy (Ricki Tarr), who not only meet the game of the rest of the cast but beat them at it, dominating every scene that they are in. Cumberbatch presents an extraordinarily layered performance with the subtlest of shifts, flashes of outright humour and a raw devastation which lingers long after the moment has passed. Hardy is just as affecting as a scalphunter with a heart, moving easily and truthfully between studied nonchalence, desperation and grief. One of Le Carré's great strengths as a writer is his ability to sketch a unique, fully rounded and human character within just a couple of sentences; one of the great strengths of this cast is their ability to translate precisely this just as concisely within a single gesture.

This is a cinema of understatement and subtlety, of intellectual rigour and engagement. Its style reflects not only the content of the story, but also the integrity of Alfredson's film-making. It demands active participation from the audience who must follow carefully to understand fully the denouement, but the journey is a very beautiful one and absolutely worth the effort.

WELCOME!

Just want to welcome everyone to this new blog which aims to provide a commentary on media and the arts. There will be reviews of films, TV shows, plays, and books - old and new alike - as well as general comments on media and arts development. I hope you find it informative, interesting, and entertaining.