Madmen, murderers and spies, but thank God the cat survived
Vigil BBC1, Sunday HHHHH (warning: spoilers) Hollington Drive
ITV, Wednesday HHHHH
The key feature of Vigil, the submarine thriller that concluded this week, was viewers moaning about Vigil (so unrealistic; no more toe-curling bathtub-sharing scenes, we beg you) while still watching Vigil. I moaned about Vigil – you’re semidrowning in a torpedo tube but your hair and make-up are just-so? – while still watching Vigil. I initially gave Vigil three stars but have bumped it up to four because, if nothing else, it did give us something to moan about that wasn’t petrol.
Vigil was made by World Productions (which made Line Of Duty and Bodyguard) and, as with any show made by pesky World Productions, it put its little hooks into you and pulled you in as inescapably as that poor Scottish fishing trawler was pulled down.
And, typically for World Productions, it was weekly, which gave everyone time to moan about how bad it was and dissect all its credibility issues before returning for the next episode, which means what? That it was actually good?
I’ve confused myself now. Maybe it isn’t a matter of Vigil being good or bad. Perhaps we can only say: this is television so skilfully manipulative that you will keep going to the bitter end, even in spite of yourself. I won’t offer a plot summary, because I’m not sure I properly understood what was going on, but that’s OK because I don’t think anyone else did, and if I did once understand what the role of Jackie (the cook) in all this was, I certainly don’t remember now.
Let me see if I got this right, at least. So, the Russians put a spy on a Royal Navy submarine simply as a PR stunt to embarrass the British? But if they’d succeeded, after four deaths (Burke, Jade, Jackie, Prentice), wouldn’t we think we needed to protect ourselves from the Russians more than ever? Did the overall arc make any sense whatsoever? Which isn’t to say the final episode wasn’t exciting, because it was. Properly.
In fact, it was so tense and anxiety-inducing that our sympathy for the crew was up there with our sympathy for June from Handmaid’s Tale: what more can they put you through? DCI Silva (Suranne Jones) was trapped in a torpedo tube with water rising, falling, rising again, falling, rising, while her hair remained glossy and frizz-free. (My hair only has to see water to frizz.)
You really didn’t know if she would survive. You really didn’t know if this annoying woman would get to cry ‘I’m arresting you!’ at the most ridiculous moment ever again. Because a big feature of these productions is killing off star names. (Martin Compston was dead from the off.)
Meanwhile Doward (Lorne MacFadyen), the replacement sonar operator, who was the spy, donned a gas mask and went mad with a knife, which is when this went all horror/ slasher movie on us. (I imagined the Russians later saying to him: ‘You were only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!’)
He also opened the bilge valve and the ship was taking on water at the rate of a ton a second. Captain Newsome (Paterson Joseph), as ever, kept his cool. The coxswain might die, Captain. ‘Understood.’ We’re going to sink, Captain. ‘Understood.’
But I was perplexed. Once he knew a saboteur was on board, why didn’t he heighten security and ensure no crew member was left alone at any point? Why didn’t he make them double up? I’m not a military strategist or anything, but wouldn’t that have been the sensible precaution to take?
Even allowing for narrative licence, it was often very silly, and the ‘no comment’ at the end did seem like a cop-out – don’t start something if you don’t know how to finish it! – but Prentice (Adam James) RIP was redeemed, while Silva learned to say ‘I love you’ – not that we much cared – and Cat (the cat) was fine, presumably. All in all, it was rather fun. I’ve certainly enjoyed moaning about it enormously.
ITV’s latest thriller, Hollington Drive, stars Anna Maxwell Martin and Rachael Stirling, so I had high hopes for it, but it’s just like all the others. It’s one of those behind-the-privethedge thrillers set in affluent suburbia where the kitchen islands are mahoosive and the wine glasses are balloon-shaped and double sliding doors lead to an acre of garden, but it’s not the perfect life, as dark secrets lurk. How many times have we seen that before? About 78,982 times, by my reckoning.
It centres on two sisters, Theresa (Maxwell Martin) and Helen (Stirling), and a child going missing, which triggers flashbacks for Theresa, plus she thinks her own young son might be involved. Meanwhile Helen, a headmistress, is having an affair and behaves in ways that just made me think she’s despicable. How you’re meant to like any of these people, even vaguely, I don’t know. This isn’t a case of it being so bad it’s good. It’s so bad it’s… quite bad. I think I had more fun queueing for petrol just now.