The Mad Woman in the Attic
Air dates: 9/27/93 and 10/4/93
Written: Jimmy McGovern
Directed: Michael Winterbottom
Pilot episodes are tricky beasts. Understandably, television creators aren't immediately sure what direction they're taking, how to handle the characters, what style works or how to approach the material generally. Thus pilots tend to be grab bags of ideas, showing germs of the show to come, but also awkward elements soon to be downplayed or discarded entirely. All that, and they need to wrap it up in an entertaining story.
The Mad Woman in the Attic suffers from these early jitters. McGovern tries to establish Cracker's world and tell a compelling mystery in 100 minutes, leading to a somewhat awkward serial. While more conventional than later efforts it's still entertaining, showing signs of the brilliant show to come.
A teenaged girl is found murdered on a train. The only police suspect is Thomas Kelley (Adrian Dunbar), found with the victim's blood on his clothes but suffering from amnesia. Fitz spends several days grilling Kelley and grows convinced he didn't do it; he tries to draw out Kelley's repressed memory. A phone call from a too-helpful individual (Nicholas Woodeson) may hold the key.
Mad Woman certainly shows birthing pains. Early scenes present a slow police procedural as Bilborough and Beck (accompanied by an obnoxious American pathologist) laboriously investigate a murder. Michael Winterbottom presents colorful style (intercutting the killer's breakdown with a huffing train engine) later eschewed for grimy docudrama. There's also a soundtrack packed with blues songs, an approach McGovern quickly phased out. And Fitz having Kelly visit his home doesn't seem right; presumably Albie Kinsella wouldn't get an invite.
McGovern introduces embryonic motifs. Early scenes highlight the victim's parents (John Grillo and Kika Markham) being dragged into Bilborough's investigation. This became a key device in later episodes; McGovern mitigates any sympathy doled out to his killers by showing the consequences of their actions. He characteristically highlights Kelley's religious ambivalence (he's a doubting monastic student), a counterpoint to Fitz's raging atheism. Then there's police eagerness to get results (eg. a conviction) clashing with justice. This time though, Bilborough gets bailed out by a chatty criminal; next time he's not so lucky.
Fitz at least emerges fully formed. His failings are placed front-and-center, placing a racing bet in the very first scene. Then there's his hysterical lecture, literally hurling Spinoza and Freud at his student audience. McGovern earns credit for one of the most dynamic character intros ever. Fitz already shows sharp interplay with family, mutual suspicion with coppers and piercing interrogation skills. Robbie Coltrane inhabits the role like a glove; no awkwardness here, anyway.
The supporting cast gets short shrift. Barbara Flynn, at least, gets a bravura monologue denouncing her husband's vices. Judith isn't the typical long-suffering wife who doesn't understand her genius husband. She's got Fitz's measure and fights him tooth-and-nail. But Geraldine Somerville's virtually invisible before getting some last-minute banter with Coltrane. Christopher Eccleston and Lorcan Cranitch are merely tough cops with few hints of the layered characterizations to follow.
Mad Woman's biggest fault is its familiar whodunnit structure. Amnesia isn't a novel hook (see Spellbound for one), nor is Adrian Dunbar's performance especially memorable. When Michael Hennessey makes his brief, seemingly inconsequential appearance it's easy to divine what's up. If the crisp story doesn't hold your attention, set pieces will: obese egotist he may be, Fitz interrogating Sweeney in front of a moving train is badass. It's a formative work, and hardly a bad one.
To Say I Love You
Air dates: 10/11, 10/18 and 10/25/93
Written: Jimmy McGovern
Directed: Andy Wilson
"The finest aphrodisiac in the world, Dr. Fitzgerald."
To Say I Love You is a major step forward. McGovern shows a much firmer grip on Fitz's world than before, layering personal drama into the crime texture. Again he employs a familiar plot, this time a pair of lover-killers. But everything's so well-handled the dearth of originality scarcely rankles.
Twentysomething Sean Kerrigan (Andrew Tiernan) impresses Tina Brien (Susan Lynch) at a karaoke bar. The two fall for each other. When small-time hood Cormack (Gavin Muir) ransacks Sean's apartment, Tina convinces Sean to get revenge. After murdering Cormack the two go on the lam, with DS Giggs (Ian Mercer) becoming a target. Fitz meanwhile balks at Judith's attempts to salvage their marriage, while casting his eyes at DS Penhaligon.
To Say I Love You provides our first "howcatchem," to borrow from Columbo. Sean and Tina's murderous relationship provides the show's focus. They're a curious mix: Sean's rage stems from an incurable stammer, which combined with Tina's recklessness makes a perfect storm of nastiness. Tina resents having to coddle her blind sister (Susan Vidler), rebelling against her status as forgotten sibling. Andrew Tiernan and Susan Lynch give memorable turns as pathetic losers whose crimes grow more pointless and desperate.
McGovern doesn't stray much from formula here, but it scarcely matters. The interrogation scenes crackle: Fitz builds Tina up to an ecstasy describing Bonnie & Clyde's climax, then demolishes them with a homily for their victims. (Here Fitz's fetish for Classic Hollywood serves a plot purpose!) There's still maddening lapses into hysteria whenever McGovern tries to raise the stakes. For the first time, a policeman becomes a victim, soon a recurring theme. Then there's the over-the-top ending, when Sean not only takes Sammy hostage but threatens to blow up a house with petrol and matches.
To Say I Love You makes its real impact by fleshing out the cast. Beck and Bilborough get their first shades of development, showing resentment towards Fitz even as they use him. How does it reflect on their professionalism that an outsider does their hard work? A media representative planning to interview Bilborough sees one of Fitz's demonstrations, then books the latter on a talk show! When Beck's more interested in taunting Sean than questioning him though, there's bigger problems than PR.
Sharper still are the Fitzgerald family troubles. Judith confronts Fitz with marriage counselor Graham (David Haig), whom Fitz ceaselessly emasculates. One hilarious scene sees Fitz disrupts a Gamblers Anonymous meeting ("By wankers and for wankers") with a card game. Fitz's reaction is telling: not merely stubborn, he's not remotely willing to change. "You wouldn't want me to lie," he cruelly replies to Judith's demands to stop gambling. He may occasionally substitute Diet Coke for whiskey but sees nothing wrong with selfishness.
Nor is this a mere tiff. Judith begins sleeping with Graham, more to irritate her husband than out of real affection towards that obsequious nebbish. In retaliation, Fitz begins flirting with Penhaligon in earnest, even taking her to a restaurant while Judith and Graham lunch. Penhaligon, already testy after seeing her promotion turned down, doesn't appreciate the humiliation. She gets her own back by dousing Fitz with ice water. McGovern presents this drama with droll wit and sharp insight, remaining well above soap opera level.
* * *
Cracker's first two episodes see Jimmy McGovern and Co. finding their bearings. There's excellent stuff in these shows, but they're nothing remarkable. Rest assured, they'll strike gold soon enough.
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