A version of this article was originally published in The Courier on Saturday 2nd May 2015.
The
Game: Thursday, BBC Two
Peter
Kay's Car Share: Wednesday
and Thursday, BBC One
Paul
Whitelaw
Union strikes and power-cuts. Soviet
spies and government traitors. A dingy, orange-brown Britain choking
to death on the thick sting of Capstan smoke. The Game
sometimes feels like an unlikely Peter Kay routine: “The Cold War,
eh? What were all that about?”
Set in 1972, this six-part thriller
is mired in a kind of perverse nostalgia for an age when paranoid
East/West enmity threatened to spill over into all-out nuclear
annihilation. Those were the days, my friend.
Yet despite being shamelessly
derivative – it wouldn't exist without the work of John le Carre and Tomas Alfredson's 2011 film adaptation of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy – The Game has just enough character of
its own to deflect accusations of irrelevance. At least so far.
Written by Toby Whithouse (Being
Human; Doctor Who), its sardonic sense of humour is a saving
grace. Steeped in neo-noir trappings and an ominously jazzy John
Barry-esque score, The Game blends knowingly fond pastiche –
the nasty chief villain is defined by his unerring ability to peel
apples sinisterly – with violent severity. It's also handsomely,
gloomily stylised without drawing too much attention to its handsome,
gloomy style. That's a tricky balancing act, but Whithouse at his
best is an assured purveyor of black comic drama.
Our idiosyncratic team of MI5
anti-heroes are headed by a world-weary chief codenamed 'Daddy' –
Brian Cox in careworn teddy bear mode - which none too subtly
heightens the notion of them as a dysfunctional family.
Chief among them is a Bowie-boned
young agent whose carapace of ruthless, almost catatonic efficiency
masks an impulsive broken heart, a terribly nice wire-tapper who is
so socially inept he keeps a list of possible conversation topics in
his pocket, and, via a wonderfully arch performance from Paul Ritter,
a barely-closeted establishment kingpin cruelly domineered by his
monstrous mother. They're typical Whithouse creations – flawed, odd
and intriguing.
The saga began with a defecting KGB
officer informing MI5 of a potentially devastating Soviet plot. What
this involves remains unclear, but already the body-count is rising.
Throw in the usual paranoid spy themes of strained loyalty and
creeping mistrust, and the potential is there for a compelling yarn
told at a suitably deliberate pace.
In a way, I don't blame Whithouse for
indulging himself in this familiar milieu. As a petrified child of
the Cold War myself, I admit to being similarly obsessed with the era
and its chilly accoutrements. Doom-caked BBC classics such as Edge
Of Darkness and Threads are part of our collective DNA.
With good reason, they still haunt our dreams.
Plus there's no reason why a talented
dramatist shouldn't be allowed to play a brand new game using the
Tinker, Tailor toy box. I remain cautiously optimistic.
Peter Kay's last sitcom was the
best-forgotten Max and Paddy's Road to Nowhere in 2004. Since
then he's coasted along on an increasingly flimsy raft of good-will,
his best years seemingly behind him. Hence why Peter Kay's Car
Share is such a pleasant surprise.
A low-key sitcom in the
claustrophobic mould of The Royle Family and Rob Brydon's
Marion & Geoff, it's set almost entirely within the
confines of a car belonging to assistant supermarket manager John
(Kay) as he drives to and from work with employee Kayleigh (Sian
Gibson, a revelation).
The company car share scheme has
thrown these two together. John is an affable curmudgeon, Kayleigh a
naïve chatterbox. The pleasure derives from watching their
relationship gradually blossom from initial reluctance to comfortable
co-dependence. While their arc, complete with will-they-won't-they
romance undercurrent, is predictable, Kay and Gibson share sweetly
convincing and often very funny chemistry.
After years of cynical laziness, Kay
has remembered what he's good at – broad-appeal observational
comedy fused with subtlety, detail, warmth and pathos. Granted, the
spilled urine gag in episode one was hammered into the ground, and
the incongruous musical fantasy sequences are pure padding.
But his ability to weave revealing
threads of backstory into John and Kayleigh's conversation is
impressive, as is his use of the car stereo – which spews forth an
acutely-observed parody of banal commercial radio plus a “timeless”
roster of semi-obscure hits, while triggering and commenting upon the
surface duologue.
That all of this is achieved using
two characters who barely depart from a confined space is testament
to the effort that Kay and his co-writers – Gibson included –
have put into this show. It's an impressive piece of writing,
beautifully performed.
Against all odds, Car Share is
a thoroughly charming affair that returns Kay to his oft-overlooked
character comedy roots. I was wrong to write him off, and I'm
delighted about that.
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