The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - Review
‘We tried to be true to the politics of Belfast’
If Northern Irish police drama Blue Lights hadn’t been a hit, its writers would have had to leave the country
Blue Lights burst onto the screen last year as a rare, electrifying word-of-mouth hit, recommended by both critics and colleagues with an urgency – you must see this. It was terrifying, hard-edged, touching, funny and beautiful to watch, hurling away the rules of the police procedural by following three green recruits through the mean streets of Belfast, where violent death could – and did – take out even the most beloved character.
The three rookies – Grace (Siân Brooke), a former social worker and single mother in her early 40s; Annie (Katherine Devlin), a hardpartying young woman; and Tommy (Nathan Braniff), an earnest fast-track swot – were mentored by Richard Dormer’s tough but loveable Gerry. And – spoiler alert – Gerry died, gunned down at the end of episode five. Social media erupted in protest, fans wept and begged the writers to let him live. “You’d better incorporate some manner of supernatural elements into series two and bring my Gerry back!” one tweeted.
Sitting in a cinema bar with the writers – Adam Patterson and Declan Lawn – the first thing I ask them is why they did it. “A lot of people ask this question, and some people with a large degree of disdain for us,” says Patterson, giving a wry smile. “It can become a bit heated. We didn’t do it to shock. We’re trying to represent Northern Ireland with a level of authenticity, and sometimes the good ones just don’t survive.”
Blue Lights, the duo stress, is about the consequences of violence – especially a mundane violence that the police in Northern Ireland encounter every day. Season two is built on the consequences of Gerry’s death, bringing a poignancy to the story beyond the typical cop show. It’s this raw sense of jeopardy that underpins almost every scene in the show. If you watch a cop getting into their car in Blue Lights, you’re always half expecting them to get blown up when they start the engine.
Season two starts with what seems to be all our heroes in mortal danger as rioters torch their car. Then, after a swift reveal, it takes the pressure off the boil and on to simmer, with a wave of deadly new drugs on the streets and a dark return to crimes committed during the Troubles. Where series one was based in nationalist West Belfast, series two is rooted in the loyalist East, with bloodcurdling gangsters, bleak estates and Union Jack festooned murals.
“If we’re doing a cop show in Belfast, we can’t just do a story of a crime family, because the crime families will be colourfully represented, literally, by flags,” Patterson points out. “If you’re going to do it honestly, and this is what we’re trying to do, then the Irish tricolour and the Union Jack are the symbols those families truly believe in. We’re making a contemporary drama, so in order to make it authentic, we put these things in.”
Authenticity is critical, they explain, partly because before turning to drama they were both journalists making documentaries for Panorama – their biggest hit before Blue Lights was the docudrama The Salisbury Poisonings – but mostly because they’re both from Northern Ireland and, “If this hadn’t been done well, we’d have to leave the country,” Patterson says with a light laugh.
As writing partners, they represent both communities. Lawn grew up a nationalist Catholic in DerryLondonderry. His parents worked in a bank and would sometimes be home late because of a bomb scare. When he was nine years old, he
became conscious that every time they went to work there was a chance they might not come home.
Patterson’s family were Protestants and his father was a prison officer. It’s a testament to the hold the past has on the present that he asks me not to mention his name, even now. When he was growing up, his father had a gun that he’d keep under a cushion on the sofa and beside his bed at night in case he was ever targeted.
“I feel like I grew up in a very normal world,” he begins. “But it wasn’t. Having bulletproof glass in your windows and your dad with a gun under the couch, that’s not normal. But my parents instilled in me a willingness to be open to all people across the community. I’m very proud of my family and the sacrifices they made, and that’s why we can relate so much to the police officers. I think of my mother at home, thinking, ‘He’s not back from work yet.’ How does that impact on her and her psychology? This was really good grounding for us.”
This empathy carried risks. “The consequence of character drama is to humanise the face behind the uniforms, and the police service is not an easy institution to represent in our home,” Lawn nods. “It has a dark past. It’s much more progressive now, but there’s a lot of people who think about it through the old RUC days. And people will really tell you what they think, which is, paradoxically, why we love our country.”
Then they explain why it was important that local people approved of the show, and it briefly takes my breath away. It’s not just because they’ll be mocked or shunned – they write and direct, meaning they’re behind the camera on location. And those locations are the nationalist and loyalist estates themselves, where the cast turn up wearing police uniforms, and it isn’t wise to be provocative in those parts of the city.
“We literally get people from the area together in town-hall meetings, explain why we’re doing it and ask their permission,” Lawn explains. “You tell them what you can about the story, so that they don’t feel they’re being hoodwinked. But we used to do that all the time in journalism, so it’s fine, that’s just what needs to be done. They tolerate us, and we have to show those communities respect. For series two, they sometimes asked for a selfie with the stars and that was the ultimate sign we were doing OK.”
Their commitment to Belfast extends to an almost scene-stealing return to the screen for Derek Thompson, aka Charlie from Casualty, who plays a retired RUC Special Branch officer with a dark secret in his past. Amanda Black, their producer, became aware that he was leaving Casualty.
“We were instantly interested in that because he’d been in [Belfast drama] Harry’s Game,” says Lawn, leaning forward eagerly. “For the first time in 37 years, he’s doing his own original Belfast accent. For the first 10 seconds, when he opens the door, you think, there’s Charlie from Casualty. By the next episode, you forget, which is testimony to how he inhabits the role.”
They won’t say if Thompson makes it into the third season – but they are delighted to have the commission to finish their grand story arc. They won’t be drawn on it, beyond Lawn saying, “It’s about idealism versus pragmatism, which runs through every scene, every character. And that’s the central theme of Northern Ireland. But Grace is always at the heart of it.”
I assume that Grace is English to help outsiders in to the strange world of post-Troubles Belfast, but, in fact, says Patterson, the part was written as a local. “It was Siân’s incredible audition that made us think, what if she was English?” he smiles. Please tell me she doesn’t die, I beg. They tell me to have hope.
“The seditious nature of hope is interesting to us,” adds Lawn. “We live in a world that, especially in television drama, is extremely cynical. Everything’s bad, everyone’s corrupt, everything’s dark. But it’s not the whole story. There is hope. How could you not be hopeful if you grew up in Northern Ireland and now see the physical, social and political change. How could you possibly not be optimistic? Whatever you think about Blue Lights, I think it’s the most optimistic show on television.”
‘Having bulletproof glass in your windows and your dad with a gun under the couch isn’t normal’