http://www.thecourier.co.uk/lifestyle
The
Escape Artist: Tuesday, BBC1
Bedlam:
Thursday, Channel 4
Paul
Whitelaw
There was a scene near the start of
The Escape Artist, a lurid new thriller starring David Tennant
as a hotshot barrister, in which our man carefully explained the
basics of his profession to a group of inquisitive schoolchildren.
Rarely have I witnessed such a
patronising piece of exposition in a drama designed for adults; did
writer David Wolstencroft, the creator of Spooks, really
assume us ignorant of what a barrister does? Given the sheer
preponderance of legal dramas on film and television over the years,
I think even the most inattentive viewer must've got the gist of it
by now.
That aside, it's an enjoyable penny
dreadful in which dynamic barrister Will Burton's belief that
everyone deserves a defence came back to haunt him like an army of
knife-wielding ghosts. Even when defending some right rum coves, the
man nicknamed “The Escape Artist” is renowned for having never
lost a case. Recently crowned number one in the What Barrister
industry magazine – much to the chagrin of number two, played by
Sophie Okenodo - he was almost unbearably successful.
Indeed, Burton was initially depicted
as so content in his career and home life – he and loving wife
Ashley Jensen enjoyed nothing more than sharing a candlelit bath in
their idyllic country cottage – it was simply a matter of waiting
for that happiness to be obliterated.
Burton's latest case saw him
defending Liam Foyle, a creepy young man charged with brutally
murdering a woman. The evidence against Foyle was overwhelming. He
kept an aviary in his living room, for heaven's sake, the
sort of “quirk” no self-respecting fictional serial killer should
be without. It's also the sort of detail leered over by the tabloids,
who Wolstencroft, with a faint whiff of hypocrisy, chastised for
sensationalising and prejudicing such trials. He's right, they do.
But isn't he also gaining capital from exploiting our fascination
with serial killers? It's a moral maze, it really is.
In any case, despite Burton's moral
qualms about taking on the case, he triumphed once again, almost
despite himself, and got Foyle off on a technicality. Inevitably, the
action then lurched into Cape Fear territory, as Foyle –
Toby Kebbell giving it the full smirking, well-spoken, hair-trigger
psychopath treatment – began stalking Burton's brood.
Why? Presumably because Burton
wouldn't shake his hand at the close of the trial. They're awfully
touchy, serial killers.
The scene in which Foyle appeared at
the cottage window while Jensen took yet another relaxing bath was,
while predictable, an entertaining jolt. But what followed was a
classic piece of horror illogic. After calling the police and
confirming the identity of their unwanted visitor, the family
travelled back to London. Perhaps they'd be safer there. But no, the
following weekend mother and child travelled back to the cottage
without protection. Call me a snivelling coward if you will, but I
doubt I'd be so lax in that situation.
However, the action soared towards a
genuinely shocking crescendo. Burton, running late, arrived at the
cottage to discover his wife brutally slain and his petrified child
hiding in a trunk. Although some form of disaster was to be expected,
killing off a high-profile actress such as Jensen in episode one was
a particularly effective twist (Wolstencroft has previous form, of
course: Spooks was notorious for killing off major characters
with little fanfare).
Tennant, a fine actor, is
particularly adept at projecting haunted trauma. The remaining
episodes will doubtless allow him plenty of scope to impress.
In the end, the ambitious Okenodo
took the rearrested Foyle's case – of course she did, that's how
drama works – thus paving the way for an inevitable torrent of
moral anguish and ghost train thrills.
A surprisingly sensitive study of
mental illness, observational documentary series Bedlam – so
titled after the notorious former name of what is now the South
London and Maudsley psychiatric institution – opened with a visit
to a specialist anxiety unit treating some of Britain's most extreme
OCD cases.
The focus rested largely on James, a
young man whose life had been capsized by his terror of soiling
himself in public. At his worst he spent up to seven hours a day in
the bathroom, frantically washing and showering. The candour of the
contributions from James and his tired, caring mother were particularly
affecting.
Thankfully, this was no pruriently
voyeuristic look at a “crazy” ailment – we have more than
enough of those on TV already - but rather a poignant and ultimately
hopeful portrait of troubled, vulnerable human beings.
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