Stonemouth:
Monday, BBC One
The
Interceptor: Wednesday, BBC
One
Paul
Whitelaw
“Hi, is that Peter Mullan's agent?
I've got a part he might be interested in; a gruff Scottish hard man
who – what? He'll do it? Great!”
Fine actor though he is, Mullan could
growl and scowl through his role in Stonemouth in a state of
deep somnambulance. Given the thinness of his material in this case,
I wouldn't be surprised if he did.
Based on a novel by Iain Banks, it's
a lacklustre neo-noir yarn in which a young man, Stewart, returns to
an Aberdeenshire coastal town to investigate the supposed suicide of
his best friend, Cal.
A charismatic rebel, Cal was the son
of a local drugs kingpin (Mullan, natch) and the brother of Stewart's
estranged paramour, Ellie. An unwelcome presence in Stonemouth,
Stewart was literally run out of town two years prior after
humiliating Ellie on the eve of their nuptials. Consumed with guilt
and regret, he's desperate to make amends by reconnecting with Ellie
and avenging Cal's death.
God knows I'm not asking for
sympathy, but I almost bored myself rigid writing that brief
synopsis. Stonemouth is hackneyed beyond belief. Transposing
an archetypal Western/film noir storyline to contemporary Scotland
can't disguise its tired familiarity. On the contrary, it merely
draws attention to its clichéd, self-conscious failings.
Stewart's semi-hard-boiled narration,
a staple of the genre, isn't lyrical enough to excuse its function as
a clumsy source of exposition. Indeed, the dialogue as a whole is
awkwardly mannered and glib. What may have looked witty in print,
sounds hopelessly unnatural when spoken aloud.
Surveying the new décor of his
former local, Stewart opined, “I prefer the comforting ambience of
the masonic conspiracy.” Later Ellie's sister declared, “My
apparent lack of remorse isn't a coping mechanism.” Yuk. That's not
dialogue, it's typing with fists.
Despite the dead-weight he's
carrying, English actor Christian Cook – replete with passable
Scots brogue - does a decent job as Stewart. Though too handsome to
convince as a lovelorn everyman, he has a certain droll charm. And
Mullan, well, Mullan hits his mark with practised professionalism.
While certain dryly comic moments
work quite well – e.g. rival kingpin Gary Lewis's inept efforts to
assure Stewart that he had nothing to do with Cal's demise –
Stonemouth is fatally soulless, flat and cheap-looking. Not so
much a hotbed of turmoil, more a knackered mattress of sin.
But it's a mind-blowing trip into the
wild unknown compared to The Interceptor. This brazenly
hackneyed thriller follows – hell yeah – an acutely observant,
maverick customs agent recruited by an off-grid squad of
law-enforcers intent on targeting powerful white collar drug
magnates.
As a child, our brooding hero
witnessed his dad being killed by a drug-addled wrong 'un. Yep, it's personal. Make no mistake, this man is on a righteous
moral crusade. Scores must be settled. Brows must be furrowed.
He knows it's untouchable Mr Big,
that bespoke criminal in his so-called suit and tie, and not your
addict scrabbling on the street who is responsible for devastating
everyday crimes. Damn right he does. It's a valid target, but his aim
is scatter-shot. He's too emotional, just too damn close to the case.
In the unlikely event that any of
these nuanced character motives went over your head, a Scottish boss
with the truculent demeanour of an errant Beechgrove gardener was
helpfully on hand to spell it out in bluntly literal detail.
I've no idea how a dramatist can
write tosh like this and not feel hideously embarrassed. I hope the
cheque was worth it. If, like me, you've never wondered what a
Richard Madeley take on The Wire would be like, then The
Interceptor refuses to honour that indifference.
With his casual, star-making
charisma, lead actor O-T Fagbenle imbues this arrant pablum with far
more class than it deserves. At least it's never boring, but only in
the sense that it doesn't sit still: a desperate magician trying to
disguise his hack-work with slick patter and an aggressive frilly
shirt.
Its cynical professionalism almost
makes me hanker for the student-level blandness of Stonemouth.
Almost.
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