A version of this article was originally published in The Dundee Courier on 13th February 2016.
Happy
Valley: Tuesday,
BBC One
Annabel's
Nightclub: A String of Naked Light Bulbs: Saturday,
BBC Four
If
it's not too late, can we install Sally Wainwright as the new Doctor
Who show-runner?
One
of TV's finest dramatists, the writer/director behind
multi-award-winning crime drama Happy Valley would be a
better replacement for Steven Moffat than new boss Chris Chibnall,
the journeyman writer who scored a fluke hit with series one of
Broadchurch, before destroying that good will with its
dreadful, superfluous sequel.
It's
an apt comparison. After all, Broadchurch and Happy Valley
both gripped the nation a few years ago. They each felt like
self-contained pieces in no need of a sequel. In the case of
Broadchurch, that was agonisingly true. But when Happy
Valley returned last week, it was immediately clear that
Wainwright wasn't treading water.
The
grimly compelling saga of tough, compassionate police sergeant
Catherine Cawood and her murderous nemesis, Tommy Lee Royce, is far
from over. Unlike Chibnall's mess, this follow-up feels necessary.
The
opening episode was a master-class in assured plotting and smooth
exposition as Wainwright reintroduced Catherine and co, plus some
promising new characters.
Set
eighteen months after the traumatic events of series one, it found
Catherine (the magnificently deadpan Sarah Lancashire)
trying to get back to normal while Royce languished for life in
prison. Inevitably, her peace didn't last longer than a blackly comic
prologue involving acid-addled sheep rustlers, which climaxed with
her discovering a decomposing human corpse in a garage.
This,
it transpired, was what remained of Royce's alcoholic mother. There
was no love lost between Catherine and the deceased, hence why she's
now a suspect. That family haunts her, even in death.
Meanwhile,
Wainwright skilfully established a new sub-plot involving a married
senior police officer (Kevin Doyle, alias Molesley from Downton)
trying to extricate himself from an affair with a woman (the always
impressive Amelia Bullmore) who refuses to go quietly. Prediction:
this mire of blackmail won't end well.
We
also met the unsettling, birdlike presence of Shirley Henderson as a
woman seemingly infatuated with Royce, who in the versatile hands of
War & Peace heartthrob™ James Norton continues his
reign as TV's most convincing psychopath. A shaven-headed knot of
pent-up fury, his simmering intensity is far more frightening than
the kind of swivel-eyed scenery-chewing one normally associates with
characters of this type.
Wainwright's
sensitive underlying themes of grief, trauma, family dysfunction and
women being abused in an aggressively male-dominated world continue
to elevate Happy Valley far beyond its cop show peers.
Why
does it reside in the upper echelons? Because of its dry wit, sharp
dialogue, strong performances from a host of interesting actors and
the way it fuses understated, character-driven realism with taut
thriller conventions. Any budding screenwriter would benefit from
studying Wainwright's impeccable work here.
Apparently
the only nightclub the Queen has ever visited, the forbiddingly
sophisticated Annabel's in London has been a discreet haven for the
filthy rich and famous for over 50 years.
Its
utter fabulousness was celebrated in Annabel's Nightclub: A String
of Naked Light Bulbs, an unquestioningly affectionate documentary seemingly aimed at the kind of cosseted toffs who'd consider
it a badge of honour to frequent such a rankly elitist dungeon.
Still,
I did chuckle at some of the colourful anecdotes peppered throughout
this glistening tribute. The
one about a roaringly drunk John Wayne causing borderline actionable mayhem was topped only
by the one about Shirley Bassey being banned for life after kicking
the maître d' up the backside.
As
a forelock-tugging outsider, I found it impossible to feel the same
warmth towards Annabel's as its staff and regulars – far easier to
summon rancorous disdain – but despite my better judgement I can't
deny that there's something vaguely charming about a
ridiculous fantasy world where the five-star bathrooms once contained
ticker tape machines spewing stock market info.
That's
despite the fact that Annabel's 53-year-old guest list must surely
include some of the worst human beings to ever draw breath. Viva le
revolution.
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