We’re very alike, you and me.

The Fall

Season 1

I don’t generally make time out for homegrown (British) series these days, as they are too frequently starved of inspiration and/or good writing. Why bother coming up with something original (and sweating over it) when you can just copy your American cousins? But The Fall was recommended to me, so I dutifully watched the first four episodes on BBC iPlayer. And they were, with some misgivings, gripping viewing. Then came the fifth, and realisation dawned that this series was actually wrought from a place of empty, cynical manipulation rather than an attempt to come up with a fresh angle on a tried and tested subgenre.

Allan Cubitt’s premise isn’t so far removed from the greatest of recent screen detectives, Cracker. Insightful individual working with the police is on the trail of a serial killer, whom we see throughout. Some mystery is offered, but the key ingredients revolve around the idiosyncracies of our hero/heroine and encouraging us to relate to, or at least understand, the killer in some way. Cubitt scores in the latter of these areas, but is considerably less successful in the former.

Jamie Dornan’s handsome psycho Paul Spector is the series’ main calling card. A young family man and bereavement counsellor, he leads a dual life as a strangler of women. And he is feeding a growing habit. Dornan’s performance is a strong one, and Cubitt repeatedly succeeds at pulling off the old Hitchcock trick of making us fear that the murderer will be caught. The fourth episode is particularly strong in this regard, and also the most stomach-churning in content.

There have been entirely legitimate debates about the depiction of violence against women in the wake of the series. Obviously, if you’re going to watch a series about a serial killer (since they are invariably male and prey on women), you’re likely to be forearmed regarding its content. And, in general, it seemed that this was appropriately uncomfortable viewing without the writer revelling in the most extreme situations he could think of (unlike the second season of Luther, which was wall-to-wall with that kind of plotting).

As such, I didn’t feel it was being gratuitous until the end of the run; the discovery that the resolution isn’t a resolution, it’s actually carrot dangling permanently out of reach, is a cheat. If the author chooses not to provide catharsis, he needs to at least leave the viewer with something of substance to mull over. But the final episode suggests a house of cards of inconsistencies and poor plotting (and dialogue); the police ought to have been able to wrap things up in another twenty minutes or so. It’s a shameless ploy in the worst sense; all the shocking moments depicted are just a game on the part of the writer after all, designed to prod the viewer to come back for more. There’s no moral dimension or insight, as in the scripts Jimmy McGovern wrote for Cracker.

By the “finale” (an inappropriate description if ever there was one) even Dornan is suffering under the weight of the increasingly rote dialogue and plotting. “We’re very alike”, he tells Gillian Anderson’s DSI. Yes, Cubitt actually went there.

Given the liberal forensic evidence, the lengthy voice recording, the video camera footage, his daughter’s artwork and the facial composite (a particularly credulity-stretching convenience, that a friend of Archie Panjabi’s forensic pathologist should have had an encounter with Dornan at university), you wonder that Dornan and family ever made it onto the ferry bound for Scotland. And a surviving victim has just woken up. Fitz certainly wouldn’t have needed two seasons to find him.

Which brings me to the problem of our protagonist. DSI Stella Gibson isn’t very well conceived. There’s little to really mark her out as a deductive maestro; her flourishes are almost entirely reactive, and she spends much of her time duelling with her boss and colleagues over the inherent sexism in the system. To that end, making her distinct by having her display a penchant for one-night stands isn’t particularly inspired. One might even argue it’s reductively sexist in itself (the only way to conceive of an independent, forthright woman is to show her being independent and forthright sexually). Add to that her emotional frostiness and you wonder if Cubitt hasn’t borrowed liberally from the Danish/Swiss The Bridge (aspergic beauty who likes a good shag is also a demon detective).

Anderson’s a much better actress than Sofia Helin, which is fortunate as the only thing that really singles out DSI Gibson is that Gillian lends her far more gravitas than there is on the page. In the first few episodes I thought Gibson’s tendency to reticence was an interesting character beat but, by the finale, when she’s on the phone to Spector liberally indulging in hyperbole (did she actually repeatedly goad him with “You fucked up”?) any aspiration towards depth has evaporated.

This crucial scene is appallingly written, wearing the series’ purported themes as a badge (as long as Gibson speechifies about “age old violence against women” it presumably lets Cubitt off the hook for revelling in it). The back and forth between Spector and Gibson is overwritten and turgid, allowing a Spector a Hannibal Lecter-like self-awareness of his motivation and the erudition to discuss it (“Art gives the chaos of the World an order that doesn’t exist” – come again?) while the best Gibson can come up with is “Is that really why you called me, to expound some half-baked philosophy?”

The cast are all very good; I should mention Bronagh Waugh as Spector’s wife, an unrewarding and reactive part performed with nuance. John Lynch, like Anderson, adds more texture to his irresolute boss than the writing deserves; a fellow officer even exclaims, “You’re weak!” in the fifth episode, as if we the viewers can’t be trusted to work it out for ourselves.

I have no idea where the secondary plotline regarding police corruption is going, if it’s going anywhere, and if it links in any way to our personable maniac. It’s rather random if it doesn’t (what, it’s just filler?) and further makes the case that the series has little respect for its audience. It’s curious that this series has staggered so badly; a scene early in the run has a victim’s sister engaged on the phone to a police call centre while help is on the way. It’s an excellent sequence, particularly the way in which the operator connects with the next caller in the line without pause once officers have arrived. The “big” telephone conversation between Gibson and Spector is so clumsy and facile that I don’t hold out much hope for a dramatic pay-off when he’s finally taken into custody. Perhaps they should call Fitz in.

I’m smarter than a beaver.

Prey (2022) (SPOILERS) If nothing else, I have to respect Dan Trachtenberg’s cynical pragmatism. How do I not only get a project off the ground, but fast-tracked as well? I know, a woke Predator movie! Woke Disney won’t be able to resist! And so, it comes to pass. Luckily for Prey , it gets to bypass cinemas and so the same sorry fate of Lightyear . Less fortunately, it’s a patience-testing snook cocking at historicity (or at least, assumed historicity), in which a young, pint-sized Comanche girl who wishes to hunt and fish – and doubtless shoot to boot – with the big boys gets to take on a Predator and make mincemeat of him. Well, of course , she does. She’s a girl, innit?

Just because you are a character doesn't mean that you have character.

Pulp Fiction (1994) (SPOILERS) From a UK perspective, Pulp Fiction ’s success seemed like a fait accompli; Reservoir Dogs had gone beyond the mere cult item it was Stateside and impacted mainstream culture itself (hard to believe now that it was once banned on home video); it was a case of Tarantino filling a gap in the market no one knew was there until he drew attention to it (and which quickly became over-saturated with pale imitators subsequently). Where his debut was a grower, Pulp Fiction hit the ground running, an instant critical and commercial success (it won the Palme d’Or four months before its release), only made cooler by being robbed of the Best Picture Oscar by Forrest Gump . And unlike some famously-cited should-have-beens, Tarantino’s masterpiece really did deserve it.

I’m the famous comedian, Arnold Braunschweiger.

Last Action Hero (1993) (SPOILERS) Make no mistake, Last Action Hero is a mess. But even as a mess, it might be more interesting than any other movie Arnie made during that decade, perhaps even in his entire career. Hellzapoppin’ (after the 1941 picture, itself based on a Broadway revue) has virtually become an adjective to describe films that comment upon their own artifice, break the fourth wall, and generally disrespect the convention of suspending disbelief in the fictions we see parading across the screen. It was fairly audacious, some would say foolish, of Arnie to attempt something of that nature at this point in his career, which was at its peak, rather than playing it safe. That he stumbled profoundly, emphatically so since he went up against the behemoth that is Jurassic Park (slotted in after the fact to open first), should not blind one to the considerable merits of his ultimate, and final, really, attempt to experiment with the limits of his screen persona.

Death to Bill and Ted!

Bill & Ted’s Bogus Journey (1991) (SPOILERS) The game of how few sequels are actually better than the original is so well worn, it was old when Scream 2 made a major meta thing out of it (and it wasn’t). Bill & Ted Go to Hell , as Bill & Ted’s Bogus Journey was originally called, is one such, not that Excellent Adventure is anything to be sneezed at, but this one’s more confident, even more playful, more assured and more smartly stupid. And in Peter Hewitt it has a director with a much more overt and fittingly cartoonish style than the amiably pedestrian Stephen Herrick. Evil Bill : First, we totally kill Bill and Ted. Evil Ted : Then we take over their lives. My recollection of the picture’s general consensus was that it surpassed the sleeper hit original, but Rotten Tomatoes’ review aggregator suggests a less universal response. And, while it didn’t rock any oceans at the box office, Bogus Journey and Point Break did quite nicely for Keanu Reev

Everyone creates the thing they dread.

Avengers: Age of Ultron (2015) (SPOILERS) Avengers: Age of Ultron ’s problem isn’t one of lack. It benefits from a solid central plot. It features a host of standout scenes and set pieces. It hands (most of) its characters strong defining moments. It doesn’t even suffer now the “wow” factor of seeing the team together for the first time has subsided. Its problem is that it’s too encumbered. Maybe its asking to much of a director to effectively martial the many different elements required by an ensemble superhero movie such as this, yet Joss Whedon’s predecessor feels positively lean in comparison. Part of this is simply down to the demands of the vaster Marvel franchise machine. Seeds are laid for Captain America: Civil War , Infinity Wars I & II , Black Panther and Thor: Ragnarok . It feels like several spinning plates too many. Such activity occasionally became over-intrusive on previous occasions ( Iron Man II ), but there are points in Age of Ultron whe

Poetry in translation is like taking a shower with a raincoat on.

Paterson (2016) (SPOILERS) Spoiling a movie where nothing much happens is difficult, but I tend to put the tag on in a cautionary sense much of the time. Paterson is Jim Jarmusch at his most inert and ambient but also his most rewardingly meditative. Paterson (Adam Driver), a bus driver and modest poet living in Paterson, New Jersey, is a stoic in a fundamental sense, and if he has a character arc of any description, which he doesn’t really, it’s the realisation that is what he is. Jarmusch’s picture is absent major conflict or drama; the most significant episodes feature Paterson’s bus breaking down, the English bull terrier Marvin – whom Paterson doesn’t care for but girlfriend Laura (Golshifteh Farahani) dotes on – destroying his book of poetry, and an altercation at the local bar involving a gun that turns out to be a water pistol. And Paterson takes it all in his stride, genial to the last, even the ruination of his most earnest, devoted work (the only disappoint

If you ride like lightning, you're going to crash like thunder.

The Place Beyond the Pines (2012) (SPOILERS) There’s something daringly perverse about the attempt to weave a serious-minded, generation-spanning saga from the hare-brained premise of The Place Beyond the Pines . When he learns he is a daddy, a fairground stunt biker turns bank robber in order to provide for his family. It’s the kind of “only-in-Hollywood” fantasy premise you might expect from a system that unleashed Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man and Point Break on the world. But this is an indie-minded movie from the director of the acclaimed Blue Valentine ; it demands respect and earnest appraisal. Unfortunately it never recovers from the abject silliness of the set-up. The picture is littered with piecemeal characters and scenarios. There’s a hope that maybe the big themes will even out the rocky terrain but in the end it’s because of this overreaching ambition that the film ends up so undernourished. The inspiration for the movie

This entire edifice you see around you, built on jute.

Jeeves and Wooster 3.3: Cyril and the Broadway Musical (aka Introduction on Broadway) Well, that’s a relief. After a couple of middling episodes, the third season bounces right back, and that's despite Bertie continuing his transatlantic trip. Clive Exton once again plunders Carry On, Jeeves but this time blends it with a tale from The Inimitable Jeeves for the brightest spots, as Cyril Basington-Basington (a sublimely drippy Nicholas Hewetson) pursues his stage career against Aunt Agatha's wishes.

I think it’s pretty clear whose side the Lord’s on, Barrington.

Monte Carlo or Bust aka Those Daring Young Men in Their Jaunty Jalopies (1969) (SPOILERS) Ken Annakin’s semi-sequel to Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines tends to be rather maligned, usually compared negatively to its more famous predecessor. Which makes me rather wonder if those expressing said opinion have ever taken the time to scrutinise them side by side. Or watch them back to back (which would be more sensible). Because Monte Carlo or Bust is by far the superior movie. Indeed, for all its imperfections and foibles (not least a performance from Tony Curtis requiring a taste for comic ham), I adore it. It’s probably the best wacky race movie there is, simply because each set of competitors, shamelessly exemplifying a different national stereotype (albeit there are two pairs of Brits, and a damsel in distress), are vibrant and cartoonish in the best sense. Albeit, it has to be admitted that, as far as said stereotypes go, Annakin’s home side win

Your Mickey Mouse is one big stupid dope!

Enemy Mine (1985) (SPOILERS) The essential dynamic of Enemy Mine – sworn enemies overcome their differences to become firm friends – was a well-ploughed one when it was made, such that it led to TV Tropes assuming, since edited, that it took its title from an existing phrase (Barry Longyear, author of the 1979 novella, made it up, inspired by the 1961 David Niven film The Best of Enemies ). The Film Yearbook Volume 5 opined that that Wolfgang Petersen’s picture “ lacks the gritty sauciness of Hell in the Pacific”; John Boorman’s WWII film stranded Lee Marvin and Toshiro Mifune on a desert island and had them first duking it out before becoming reluctant bedfellows. Perhaps germanely, both movies were box office flops.

Now In Full Color, with a Happier Ending

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