So, the Baftas came and went, and three observations, if I may:
1. If you don’t now love Olivia Colman more than life itself there is something seriously wrong with you and you should book an appointment with your GP. (There are pills for this.)
2. Some would say you should never underestimate the taste of the British public which, in this instance, gave the Audience Award to Game Of Thrones rather than the Olympics Opening Ceremony.
But, when you think about it, what was the Olympics Opening Ceremony, aside from rings of fire and dancing nurses and the unification of a nation and the Queen saying, ‘Good evening, Mr Bond,’ which she does all the time anyhow? (Her staff say it’s a job to shut her up.)
3. The frocks were, as ever, ticked and crossed in all newspapers and magazines the following day, but please don’t imagine anyone can have a go at putting ticks and crosses on frocks.
It takes years of training, plus judging must follow the strict criteria laid down by the Red Carpet Judging Association (RCJA). This is why such judging is never random, idiosyncratic, whimsical or totally mad.
Whatever, that’s it, done for this year, and if The Fall isn’t a winner next year, I’ll eat my hat, which I think is a very nice hat, but what do I know? I’m not qualified.
However, I am, I’ve decided, qualified to say if you didn’t watch the opener of this five-parter you’re a fool, and if you don’t rush now to catch up, you’re an even bigger fool and should also book a GP appointment. (No pills for foolishness, but there’s a diet sheet you may find helpful.) This is the best, most compelling show on television for a good while.
It’s a crime drama. There is a serial killer. But? This isn’t a whodunit. It’s not a whodunit because we know whodunit, and we see whodunit actually doing it, so it’s a whydunit, all about motive, and it’s fantastically gripping, unexpected and creepy.
The Fall is different, and beautifully performed. Gillian Anderson (pictured with John Lynch) is sublime, almost otherworldlyIt stars Gillian Anderson as DSI Stella Gibson, who arrives from the Met to conduct a review at a Belfast station where the police are getting nowhere on the murder of a young female architect.
Ms Gibson, who is all pristine silky shirt and icy charisma, is busy acquainting herself with the case while, across town, we see the killer in his black balaclava prowling around the house of his next victim.
He buries his face in her underwear – oh, it’s creepy! – and peels an orange in one, leaving a perfect spiral on the table. Yet the most cunning ploy is that our ‘perp’, as they say, is not an alienated loner.
He’s Paul Spector (Jamie Dornan), a loving husband and father of two.
When not otherwise occupied with strangling professional women, he may be seen at home, settling his children to sleep.
He is also a bereavement counsellor who, in case you are not freaked out enough yet, doodles a client’s knockers as she weeps over her dead son.
It’s different, and beautifully performed.
Ms Anderson is sublime, almost otherworldly, while Dornan, who used to be a top model, matches her for icy charisma, and is also hot, which is unsettling.
If you get over the fact that terrorised women now appear to be compulsory, and that at least one noise in the night will be the cat, because at least one noise in the night is always the cat, this has terrific potential, and you’d be a fool not to stick with it. (No pills, no diet, but exercise is recommended.)
More from Deborah Ross Event... DEBORAH ROSS: The end of Western civilisation? I love it 22/05/13 DEBORAH ROSS: Oh Lordy... save me from Apprenticitis 08/05/13 DEBORAH ROSS: TV reviewing doesn't get tougher than this 02/05/13 DEBORAH ROSS: Half woman. Half fringe. 100 per cent rip-off 24/04/13 DEBORAH ROSS: Help! My flashbacks are having flashbacks 18/04/13 DEBORAH ROSS: Highbrow art... and lowlife tat 12/04/13 VIEW FULL ARCHIVEOh, Frankie. Frankie wants us to love her so, and she is loveable, but the premise of this series is so unoriginal you’ll probably doze a bit, as I did.
This series has more than a whiff of Call The Midwife about it, except it’s set in the modern day and Frankie (Eve Myles) is a district nurse who heads up a team of district nurses; a team which seem to sit around all day reading Heat and eating yoghurt.
Quite why Frankie never says: ‘Hey, why do I have to do all the work around here?’ is anyone’s guess.
This is very much Sunday-night telly on a Tuesday, and a procedural, in the sense you will recognise most of the medical storylines from shows like Casualty and Doc Martin and so on.
It is also unnecessarily proud of its contemporary credentials.
Frankie drives a fast car! Frankie listens to Ken Bruce! And Frankie has a boyfriend who accuses her of putting her work before him, although what else can she do, really, when the rest of her team will only read Heat and eat yoghurt?
This is made bearable by Myles, whose performance spills with warmth, but that’s all it is: bearable.
Still, I liked the red dress she was wearing when she stood up her boyfriend on the night he was due to propose.
A big tick from me, whatever that’s worth. (If you are interested, Sheffield University does a highly respected RCJA-approved course, as does Sussex.)
