More gloomy than Walford
TOO Close involved downing happy pills and booze on an industrial scale.
How else could viewers get through three hours of relentless misery?
Near the end of the final tear-jerking instalment, our screens froze as if ITV itself couldn’t take any more of it.
Denise Gough was so compelling as Connie Mortensen you found yourself wondering if she needed a shrink or an exorcist. The woman was a bigger mess than Boris Johnson’s hair.
The opening episode set her up as a hate figure. The “yummy mummy monster” had driven off the Kingsferry Bridge, nearly killing herself, her daughter and the daughter of her bisexual pal Ness.
Fully psychotic, she tormented forensic psychiatrist Emma like a crankier Hannibal Lecter, sneering at her “swishy bag and sensible shoes” – pretty much what Lecter said to Clarice Starling.
Only as the story progressed did we realise the anti-depressants she
popped to cope with her mum’s death and her husband shagging Ness had sent Connie over the edge – literally, in her car, while “seeing” demons.
Emma’s hubby Simon was at it too, although the couple did manage to shag on the kitchen island, which is one way to glaze a doughnut. How many women gasped: “I hope they wiped that down before breakfast”?
Si was shocked, asking: “Is it my birthday, have I won the lottery?” (Sound familiar, fellas?)
It was a case of physician heal thyself though. Emma – wonderful Emily Watson – was hanging on in quiet desperation, coping with the death of her toddler and the slow demise of her marriage. She smoked menthol fags and drank red wine by the bucket.
The acting sparkled, but the torment was overpowering. Too Close made Walford look like Disneyland.
Life is depressing enough. Can TV not provide a scintilla of escapism?