An Agatha whodunit so criminally awful, you might just die laughing
Good comedy is a joy, but dreadful drama can be funnier. Agatha And The Curse Of Ishtar (C5) was so gloriously terrible, so deadly dire that I’ll be plagued by fits of giggles for days.
Set on an archaeological dig in Mesopotamia during the Twenties, the walls wobbled in this bargain basement adventure, like a Miss Marple mystery at the Crossroads motel.
But the budget wasn’t the worst problem facing Lyndsey Marshal, who played a young Agatha Christie. She had to keep a straight face in a show that had no idea whether it was a crime thriller, parody, steamy romance, sex farce, horror movie or slapstick comedy.
When she met the hero, hunky historian Max (Jonah HauerKing), he’d just been shot in the head, though only the once and not very badly, as it turned out. She rolled his unconscious body over and his arm flew up, socking her in the eye.
Agatha plucked out the bullet, which had flattened itself against the front of his cranium. A passing doctor diagnosed nothing worse than a fractured skull, which healed overnight.
We didn’t know who shot Max, because the last time we saw him he’d just discovered the tomb of Nebuchadnezzar. No one had set which had mysteriously expanded. Agatha said things such as: ‘I went surfing with Bernard Shaw. He couldn’t stand up.’
But for sheer exuberant badness, there was no beating the denouement, in which the murderer confessed and promptly drank a bottle of strychnine. He winced, sat down and announced he would start dying in 15 minutes. The other suspects made their excuses and left. No point in wasting the rest of the day, after all.
Agatha and Max sauntered away, flirting madly, oblivious to the man behind them writhing in death agonies. I’ll be amazed if there’s anything more accidentally hilarious this Christmas.
Johnny Vegas and Sian Gibson worked gamely for laughs as they investigated a string of murders at the Shady Creek caravan park in Dial M For Middlesbrough (Gold).
The first victim was run through with a swingball pole. The next two were liquidised and served in a ragu. Jason donovan, as the camp entertainer, was brained with a boule.
The humour was as broad as Benidorm and, for those who are missing the high jinks at that Spanish holiday resort, it delivered some cheesy chuckles.
But you couldn’t die laughing at it. Unlike the awful Agatha . . .