Cracker: White Ghost and A New Terror

For completeness's sake I'll briefly recap Cracker's post mortem specials. Cracker fans tend to ignore them, and with good reason: neither is very good. Years-after specials rarely work, relying more on nostalgia and perverse curiosity than solid storytelling. That's true of our first entry, White Ghost, but A New Terror has much deeper flaws.  

White Ghost
Air date: 10/28/1996
Written: Paul Abbott
Directed: Richard Standeven

Less than a year after True Romance, Fitz returns for White Ghost. Everyone's favorite porcine psychologist visits Hong Kong to solve a routine mystery. This special fits Paul Abbott's evident view of Cracker: an uncomplicated, self-contained police drama unfettered by ties to previous episodes. There's nothing really wrong with it except a distinct lack of effort.

Fitz ends up in Hong Kong on a lecture tour. He's tapped by DCI Cheung (Freda Foh Shen) to help investigate the murder of a wealth businessman. The killer is Dennis Philby (Barnaby Kay), an English entrepreneur bankrupted by bad investments - and enraged that his pregnant Chinese girlfriend Su Lin Tang (Rene Liu) wants an abortion. Philby kidnaps Su and kills others. Cheung finds Fitz useful, even if her stuffy boss (Michael Pennington) harbors doubts.

White Ghost seems content to be a field trip episode, with Fitz taking in the sights of exotic Hong Kong. There's talk about the impending handover from Britain to China and the contrast between Fitz's off-beat style and the Hong Kong police's methodical approach. The show moves quickly enough, but the setting isn't utilized to any particular effect. Robbie Coltrane's as snappy as ever and the show has some fun moments, but there's an air of why bother about it.

Conspicuously absent is Fitz's family, who've apparently grown tired of the old sod. Penhaligon's studying for a promotion, so she's out. Only Ricky Tomlinson's Wise returns, mostly as the butt of jokes (he spends the show's first hour jet lagged). Luckily there's Freda Foh Shen as the coolly professional DCI Cheung. Her interaction with Fitz follows a familiar arc, from bemused tolerance to grudging respect, but Shen's smart performance makes it work.

What doesn't work is the story. Neither Abbott nor actor Barnaby Kay make Philby credible in his actions or motives; he kills because the plot requires him too. The show works up a serviceable manhunt tension but little more, the hallmark of Paul Abbott's Cracker. White Ghost is passable entertainment, even if there's no reason for it to exist.

A New Terror (aka Nine-Eleven)
Air date: 10/30/2006 
Written: Jimmy McGovern 
Directed: Antonia Bird

After White Ghost, Cracker fans waited a decade for new adventures. Jimmy McGovern earned more laurels with The Lakes and The Streets, couching his preoccupations in more mundane formats. Robbie Coltrane became an international star through the James Bond and Harry Potter franchises. In 2006 they reunited for A New Terror, which garnered heavy anticipation (even American media hyped it a bit) but met with a tepid response.

It would be one thing if A New Terror were simply a lark like White Ghost. But it's actively, infuriatingly bad. Evidently, this show was crafted by a Bizarro Jimmy McGovern: the eloquent anguish that make his original Cracker scripts unforgettable, channeled differently, ruins Terror.

After ten years abroad in Australia, Fitz and family return to Manchester. Much to Judith's chagrin, Fitz finds himself drawn into a new case. An American comedian (Matt Rippy) turns up dead, evidently killed by an ex-soldier. It turns out the murderer is Kenny Archer (Anthony Flannagan), a veteran of Northern Ireland suffering from PTSD. Conveniently, he's also a policeman himself. Despite the reluctance of the Manchester police to bring him on board, Fitz inevitably assumes a central role in the investigation.

A New Terror works for about 15 minutes. All these years and Fitz proves the same old sod, ruining daughter Katy's wedding with a crude toast. Having Fitz revisit the New Manchester, no longer a post-industrial wasteland but a thriving metropolis, provides a tinge of amusement. It's nice to probe his relationships with Judith, who seems more tolerant towards Fitz's vices, and Mark, now a surprisingly well-adjusted adult. McGovern successfully whets our appetite with this early character development. Then the plot starts.

A New Terror isn't a Cracker episode so much as a violent diatribe against George Bush, Tony Blair and the Iraq War. This topicality proves immediately off-putting. Cracker explored relatively universal themes: male insecurity, sexism, class tension and racial disquiet. Only To Be a Somebody, with its evocation of Hillsborough, tied itself to real-world events. That episode's deft treatment of an authentic tragedy stands in stark contrast to A New Terror's crass ranting. Just seven years on, Terror feels incredibly dated.

McGovern channels his outrage into overwrought America bashing. Kenny kills exclusively boorish stereotypes: his second victim especially (Demetri Goritsas), a racist, wealthy businessman screwing a married Englishwoman, is less subtle than The Simpsons' Rich Texan. This taps into British anti-Americanism of Second World War vintage ("overpaid, oversexed, over here"), if not much older. Then we get Chomsky-lite diatribes about 9/11 as foreign policy blow back and American support of Sinn Fein. Even Fitz's interrogations degenerate to ranting about Bush. Isn't this a crime drama?

Friends traveling abroad during the Bush years assure me such resentment was commonplace. And on one level, associating a nation with its government is an easy judgment. Americans certainly don't distinguish between, say, Mahmoud Ahmedinijad and the average Iranian. But it takes a special kind of nerve for McGovern to call killing Americans solely for being American "understandable, but not excusable." Forgive this Yank for taking offense.

McGovern's so firmly planted on his soapbox that he barely bothers with a story. Wise and Penhaligon go unmentioned; Judith and Mark get hustled off at earliest convenience. Fitz deals with three cops (Richard Coyle, Nisha Nayar and Rafe Spall) who register zero personality between them. Kenny being a detective himself doesn't amount to much; he spends much of the show browbeating a petty crook who witnessed his first murder. That's not to mention Antonia Bird's obnoxious direction, splicing in news footage and jerky flashbacks like a distaff Oliver Stone.

Any redeeming features? Anthony Flanagan deserves praise for making Kenny sympathetic in his anguish if not his actions. With a little sharper writing, he could have made a genuinely tragic villain. Better still, Robbie Coltrane is in top form, a little grayer and paunchier but as vulgar, sly and brilliant as ever. At least we know if there are future Cracker revivals, Fitz remains up for the task. The same may not be true for Jimmy McGovern, however.

* * *

Rather than dwell on these unsatisfactory postscripts, let's wrap things up with a brief, personal retrospective on writing these articles.

I've shied away from writing about television shows, for the problems evident here: lots of surface and subtextual content, ongoing plot lines, many characters and diffuse subplots. Most movies, even installments in franchises, can be reviewed as an individual work. But you have to consider a TV episode both as a self-contained entity and part of a larger whole. Also, you can't include every little detail from an episode, however significant. It took me twice as long to write even the most perfunctory Cracker review than my average film review.

This was a burden for Cracker, a series with just 11 episodes. I can't imagine doing a long-running show like The Sopranos or The Wire, or even King of the Hill, without going insane. While I'm satisfied with most of these reviews, and glad I at least tried something different, Groggy's not likely to revisit television any time soon. Hopefully my readers feel I did Fitz and Co. justice.

Cracker: Best Boys and True Romance

"Paul Abbott's writing this one, Mark. Get out while you still have dignity..."

When we last left Cracker, Fitz had reconciled with Judith after the birth of a new son - though Fitz reneged on his promise to stop gambling. Penhaligon spurned any chance of reconciling with Fitz as her post-rape trauma grew knotted with guilt. This because Jimmy Beck went bungee jumping without a chord, ending a remarkably powerful story arc. It's not a neat and tidy resolution, but Cracker was never a neat and tidy show. (Just ask Nigel Cassidy.) With the series nearing its end, how could the show runners possibly match that?

Well, they couldn't, at least without Jimmy McGovern. Paul Abbott helmed the last two installments and they suck. Abbott offers characterizations either broad or perfunctory, treating lingering plot threads almost carelessly. Worse, his crime stories are uninvolving. None of the cutting sociological assessments or rounded characterizations of the best installments. Cracker goes from something unique to a banal cop show.

Maybe that was the intent. In his three scripts for the show, Abbott evinces little handle on the complexities of Fitz's world. Compared to McGovern's intricate web of social commentary, psychological complexity and ensemble melodrama, Abbott preferred "killer of the week" procedural dramas. Thus the "crime writers' greatest hits" feel to these stories (and his subsequent special, White Ghost); thus the decreased emphasis on Fitz's personal travails. It's like The West Wing post-Aaron Sorkin: the characters, setting and subject are the same, but the show becomes a formula drama without its original creator.

However flawed, the last five Cracker serials warranted in-depth dissections. These do not. Let's plow through and return to movies, shall we?

Best Boys 
Air dates: 11/6 and 11/13/95
Written: Paul Abbott
Directed: Charles MacDougall

Recycling may be good for the environment, but it's a death sentence for television shows. Best Boys is a thorough retread of Season 1's To Say I Love You, with a twist that the central couple's gay. This one almost gets by on good acting alone, but never proves engaging. Frankly it feels like a rush job, Abbott wanting to abruptly tie up some loose ends within a bland, familiar pallet.

Stuart Grady (Liam Cunningham) finds teenager Bill Preece (John Simm) sleeping in his factory. The two strike up a friendship which turns romantic, as Stuart finds Bill triggering his repressed sexuality. When the two kill Stuart's landlady they go on the lam, Bill determined to get revenge on his old foster family. Meanwhile, Fitz and Judith find that their new son hasn't resolved all their problems, Penhaligon struggles to cope with Beck's death and Wise, erm, scowls gruffly.

Best Boys does little that To Say I Love You didn't handle much better. By making his protagonists homosexual, Abbott provides two half-interesting characterizations: Bill a vengeful foundling, Stuart an aggressively closeted man. But we've already seen this story played straight (pun intended) and there's nothing fresh or inventive here. The characters retain interest thanks to guest actors Liam Cunningham and John Simm; Cunningham proves particularly effective in the hostage-taking climax. That the show even took that route is unfortunate, given that To Say I Love You ended with the exact same scene.

Even when Jimmy McGovern bungled his mystery plots, his character conflicts proved compelling. Best Boys treats them as almost a nuisance. Fitz and Judith are back to squabbling, with snotty brother Danny returning to insult Fitz some more. Danny served his purpose in Brotherly Love; now he's a bore. Why bring him back? Beck's sister (Aisling O'Sullivan) turns up for his funeral and gets one scene with Fitz, then bows out. Why bother? These vignettes don't help flesh out the characters or drive the story. They just mark time between killings.

Worst off is Penhaligon. We'd expect Panhandle to be traumatized by Beck's death and the resulting fallout. Her early scenes indeed show a potent mixture of grief and relief, as when she aggressively challenges Fitz to sleep with her. But then Penhaligion is forced to cover for dumbass DC Temple (Robert Cavanah) in exchange for a peak at Beck's diary. This subplot is handled so perfunctorily, one senses Abbott merely wished to rid himself of Brotherly Love associations. On such a continuity-heavy show, distancing from previous story lines isn't a good idea unless you're taking an interesting new direction. Abbott is not.

True Romance
Air dates: 11/20 and 11/27/95
Written: Paul Abbott
Directed: Tim Fywell

True Romance manages to be even worse. I don't know what bugs me more: the facile Fatal Attraction plot? The ham-fisted character development? The absent tension or plausibility? Cracker isn't just some programmer that burns willy-nilly through hoary potboiler plots, Mr. Abbott.

Fitz returns to his old university teaching job. One of his more attentive students is Janice (Emily Joyce), a lab assistant with an intense crush on Fitz. So intense, indeed, that she begins luring college boys to her flat for sex and death, just to get his attention. After the cops pull Fitz off the case, Janice kidnaps Mark. This time it's personal, with Fitz and Judith reconciling (again) as Janice debates her next move.

If there's one crime storyline more cliched than lover-killers, it's an obsessive stalker. True Romance really goes to town on this: Janice is the nebbish bookworm who resents shallow preppies so much she kills them in baroque fashion. That Emily Joyce has trouble getting guys is the first suspension of disbelief True Romance requires. For a show whose raison d'etre has been male insecurity, it's bizarre that Abbott employs a deranged misandrist villain, even if she has a twisted backstory. This episode would barely pass muster for Criminal Minds, let alone Cracker.

I've sounded like a broken record complaining about Cracker's protagonists being placed in danger. Yet here it is again, and done worse than ever. One could accept someone obsessively stalking Fitz: Robbie Coltrane may not be a looker but his charm's undeniable. But how, one wonders, does Janice know what fast food dive Mark's working at? (At least Albie saw Bilborough on TV.) Why kill everyone else but leave Mark alive? It's too obviously a screenwriters' ploy to drag Fitz into the mystery; thus, zero tension.

Fitz predictably goes through the emotional wringer, and Robbie Coltrane's very good trying to maintain a balance between professional and paternal concerns. Yet this doesn't register as strongly as it should. Cracker always got away with a basic credibility lapse: police, let alone psychologists, can't browbeat confessions out of suspects without a lawyer. That Fitz would be allowed to interrogate the woman who kidnapped his son places True Romance in the realm of pure fantasy.

If there were anything outside nuts-and-bolts storytelling True Romance might be passable. Even more than in Best Boys, however, ongoing concerns are treated cheaply. Danny Fitzgerald's back, this time to hit on Judith. Mark drops a bombshell that barely registers. DCI Wise becomes a full-on clown: his marriage unravels after his wife sees Fitz as a client, then he's stuck babysitting Fitz's son. (Cue laugh track!) Fitz tries once more to reconcile with Penhaligon, who instead shacks up with DC Temple. At show's end she resigns, a twist retconned by Abbott in a later special.

By the time True Romance lurches to its climax, our goodwill is gone. Better Cracker end here than continue its execrable decline.

* * *

Thus endeth Cracker. It lasted only three years but garnered a lot of awards and popularity, at least in the UK. Presumably because it doesn't match the American fantasy of Brits as posh aristocrats (Downton Abbey) or wacky toss pots (Monty Python), it found only a limited US following, despite syndication on BBC America. Regardless, it had a remarkable run, with three brilliant episodes that I'd place against anything television has to offer.

Oh, wait. We're not finished.

Cracker: Brotherly Love

Brotherly Love 
Air dates: 10/22, 10/23 and 10/29/94
Written: Jimmy McGovern  
Directed: Roy Battersby

Brotherly Love marked Jimmy McGovern's final script for Cracker. (I may or may not bother with 2006's abysmal 9/11 special.) Like Men Should Weep, it's overstuffed with plot strands, character resolutions and thematic baggage, resulting in a clunky serial. Yet for all its awkward craftsmanship, Love wins on sheer emotional power.

David Harvey (Mark Lambert) is an uptight Catholic who visits prostitutes behind wife Maggie's (Brid Brennan) back. He becomes the chief suspect when one prostitute winds up murdered. Fitz meanwhile deals with his mother's death, his straight-laced brother Danny (Clive Russell), and Judith's pregnancy - noting that the priest overseeing the funeral (David Calder) is Harvey's brother. He also keeps an eye on Jimmy Beck, just returned after a lengthy nervous breakdown. Beck immediately clashes with Jane Penhaligon, more convinced than ever that Beck raped her.

There's no getting around Brotherly Love's big weakness: the murder plot isn't very interesting. McGovern successfully attains misdirection by shuffling the chief suspect(s) between acts, along with contrasting a family loyal enough to cover up for murders with Fitz's fractured homelife. But the Harveys aren't especially well-drawn. Brid Brennan proves suitably ferocious as Maggie's psychoses boil to the surface but she's still basically a nutcase. More interesting, just, are the prostitutes themselves, an interesting cross section of "fallen women" - especially Polly Hemmingway's crude madam. As a whodunnit Brotherly Love is satisfactory, at best.

Nor are McGovern's jabs at Catholicism especially enlightening. The Big Crunch at least had an interesting idea: a sect functioning as an extension of its leader's ego. Brotherly Love contents itself with rude sarcasm, using Fitz as a mouthpiece for facile rants about religion. As if subverting I Confess, McGovern treats Father Michael as a hypocrite for upholding the confessional seal; Danny's uprightness led to a failed marriage. Beck himself is Irish. Love suggests one can't be a Catholic without being a repressed lunatic.

At least Love ties this into its most interesting strand. Masculine insecurity is one of Cracker's recurring fascinations, and even more than Men Should Weep this show hones in on misogyny. David Harvey proves twisted in a more mundane way than most Cracker protagonists. With a pronounced Madonna-whore complex, he forces hookers to dress up as little girls while treating his wife as a chaste saint. By focusing on prostitution, McGovern ponders what's wrong with a society that makes females commodities. Even Maggie gets a sympathetic moment; her family's starving yet David spends much-needed money on hookers? Women become things to be used, discarded and killed.

This leads nicely to Jimmy Beck. As Fitz slowly peels back Beck's defenses, we get a disturbing picture that goes beyond guilt. Mocked by girls as a teenager, sexually insecure, Beck loathes women to a disturbing degree. He even tells Fitz that "everybody rapes," recounting unsavory youthful escapades and gloating that he can identify Penhaligon by an intimate tattoo. Until now, Beck's wrapped his misogyny into a masculine mad-at-the-world persona. By holding him responsible for Bilborough's death, Penhaligon was just another woman who "betrayed" Beck. Yet his action cause endless shame; now Beck's no better than the criminals he's spent his life fighting.

Of everything great in Cracker, Beck might be McGovern's finest achievement. We sense, even at this stage, he's a good man who went tragically wrong somewhere along the line. He regains a modicum of respect by busting Maggie Harvey at show's end. His tragedy was never being smart or self-aware enough to recognize his flaws. One telling bit during has Beck take a moment to conjure the word "irony," then smugly repeating it like a pleased child. Lorcan Cranitch never loses sight of Beck's humanity, giving an incredibly powerful performance.

Our sympathy for this devil dissipates whenever Penhaligon's around. Geraldine Somerville's dour, nasty turn shows how deeply she's been traumatized. Gone is the playful, flirty Panhandle; now she wears drab clothes, puts her hair up, speaks in terse, cruel jabs. When she's not promising to expose Beck she ponders letting a disturbed hobo kill him. Her rift with Fitz, absent for the past four months, grows insurmountable; that Fitz's wife gives her one of the coldest insults imaginable certainly doesn't help. She can't even dive into work with Beck around, and another sex killer to investigate.

Fitz has the Herculean task of juggling all these stories. Robbie Coltrane shows him understandably overwhelmed; he's no sharper at nailing the killer than the cops, and fingers Father Michael largely, it seems, due to misplaced guilt over his mother. He's more interested getting Beck to confess, even driving the man into a panic attack. Nor is he happy with the arrival of Danny, a prig who self-righteously mocks Fitz. Judith's pregnancy offers him a brief hope of redemption; he even promises to swear off gambling! Fitz is at his lowest point since One Day a Lemming Will Fly. Here, at least, he's got an excuse.

Like its predecessor, Love is an exceedingly dark show. Roy Battersby's atmospheric direction dwells on grungy slums, cheap tenements and closed factories, swarming with prostitutes, vagrants and criminals. How the cops discover the third victim provides a nasty touch out of Hitchcock or Val Lewton. This show has a few glimmers of comedy, namely Penhaligon's prostitute getup (a Pittsburgh Steelers jacket!) and the bingo game that breaks out during the funeral. This bathos provides scant relief from the sordid story.

Brotherly Love seems to wrap up tidily: Judith gives birth to Fitz's new son, Danny buggers off, the killer is behind bars (we think). But Jimmy Beck still must kick start the final act. The last ten minutes show Beck taking David Harvey hostage, mocking Wise and pleading Penhaligion for forgiveness before taking a swan dive off a hotel roof. The last shot of Penhaligon, shrieking inconsolably in Fitz's arms, is among the most powerful, gut-wrenching finales you'll encounter in all television.

* * *

Brotherly Love ends on such a devastating note that it would have been a perfect finale. Sadly, we've two (or four) installments to go. We'll wrap those up as quickly as possible.

Cracker: Men Should Weep

Men Should Weep
Air dates: 11/21/94, 11/28/94, 12/5/94
Written: Jimmy McGovern
Directed: Jean Stewart

With Jimmy McGovern's return, Cracker goes unabashedly controversial. Men Should Weep seems deliberately provocative, showcasing misogyny, rape and racism. It's full of brilliant moments, with Geraldine Somerville, Lorcan Cranitch and Ricky Tomlinson at the top of their games. Yet it feels overstuffed, with McGovern biting off more than he can chew.

Floyd Malcolm (Graham Aggrey) is a malcontent cabbie living with his mom (Rachel Davies), and has no luck with women. He's also a serial rapist who targets the wives of men who slight him. The case grows intensely personal when Jane Penhaligon becomes a victim. As the police track Floyd, Fitz deals with Penhaligon's trauma and Judith's return, five months pregnant and hoping to change Fitz. It becomes clear that Penhaligon's attacker wasn't Floyd - and Penhaligon suspects Jimmy Beck.

Men Should Weep provides a commendably delicate look at rape. McGovern shows it not only traumatizing but thoroughly humiliating, leaving physical and psychic scars. Floyd's first victim Catherine (Marian McLoughlin) is forced to relive the event repeatedly, recounting it for police, then revealing intimate sexual details to examiners. Aside from Penhaligon's courtesy, she finds little comfort or sympathy: "It's so much more helpful when the victim's educated," opines one callous examiner. There's certainly no accusation of enjoying or "deserving" it, even though one victim experiences orgasm.

Geraldine Somerville dominates this installment. It's tough watching this strong, playful woman reduced to inconsolable grief and vulnerability, her worst fears violently realized. Her professional views of rape crumble when experiencing the real thing; uncomprehending colleagues asked why she bathed, why she didn't scream. Discovering Judith's pregnancy unsettles her further; she can't lean on Fitz for guidance any more than Wise. It strains credulity that Penhaligon's still allowed to work on the case, but her ruined mental state registers powerfully. When she accuses Beck of rape it very well could be delusion.

McGovern shows male reaction as embarrassment mixed with insensitivity. There's Tom Carter (John McCardle), Catherine's husband, beating an innocent man (Tony Rohr) to reassert his masculinity. He feels emasculated by Catherine's rape, considering himself a victim. Wise shows Penhaligon compassion but only offers lame assurances that "We'll catch this man." Fitz plays an unusually detached role: Penhaligon doesn't even tell him what happened. Worse, his radio show inspires Malcolm to murder his last victim. (After To Say I Love You, one would expect the police to curtail Fitz's media appearances!)

But Beck is most strikingly effected. This case sets something off, as if Floyd embodies Beck's Id, an extension of his sexist male aggression. He tells Tom Carter that he'd "give him a medal," then rows violently with Wise. Penhaligon's flippant admission that she "fantasizes about rape" provides the final push to someone already warped with guilt, rage and incomprehension. Beck resents his "compassion" towards Albie Kinsella, but bests that criminal's "sickening sentimentality" by cozying up to Catriona Bilborough. Beck becomes such a twisted pile of neuroses one almost pities him.

In Floyd Malcolm, Weep provides the series' most repulsive villain. McGovern does little to make Floyd sympathetic, helped by Graham Aggrey's coldly subdued acting. He's arrogant, bitter and a cheat (collecting fraudulent welfare checks), embodying every negative black stereotype. Like Albie Kinsella, Floyd implies he deliberately plays to the stereotype, a self-appointed avenger against racism. Yet Fitz suggests an alternate motivation; when Mrs. Malcolm relates how Floyd received his scars, our blood runs cold. This generates a twinge of sympathy, but Floyd's crimes are so heinous he's beyond redemption.

Understandably, Weep's racial politics generated controversy. "The big black man in the alley is a myth!" Wise tells Beck, insisting that "White men rape white women." Is the system cutting Floyd an unfair break? We think so after Floyd somehow procures a high-powered lawyer (Angela Wynter) to stop Fitz's interrogation. Yet Floyd's siblings seem well-adjusted, despite identical upbringing. Some people are just monsters, looking for a convenient way to justify their crimes. Floyd's rap sheet suggests something more pernicious than racial resentment.

So why not rate Men Should Weep higher? Frankly, it's a mess. Powerful as they are, the various strands don't neatly tie together. The story moves from theme to theme, discarding each as it moves along. In Act III the rape angle's heavily downplayed, with awkward racial discussions taking center stage (complete with gratuitous reaction shots of DC Skelton). Penhaligon recovers enough to launch her vendetta against Beck; Fitz gets distracted by Judith's belated return. Weep doesn't have the balance of Cracker's best episodes.

One another level, we'll note how skull-crushingly idiotic Wise and Co. come off. Floyd gets arrested three times before episode's end, always going free. On one occasion they're checkmated by Floyd's lawyer, but otherwise there's no excuse. Worse, idiots Harriman and Skelton lose Floyd on a surveillance run and arrest an innocent cabbie (Ewen Cummins) on Floyd's word. What of McGovern's social commentary when his plotting hinges on cops acting monumentally stupid?

Finally, I must again object to Cracker placing characters in arbitrary danger. Penhaligon's rape works because it fits the episode, and McGovern takes time to show its devastating effects. But the climax? Judith returns to Fitz, five months pregnant, for little reason beyond setting up the denouement. Floyd comes calling, Fitz disarms him with an assist from Mark, police arrive, end story. It's not only predictable but annoyingly contrived. 

But just when you think McGovern's lost it, he redeems all with a knockout finale. Penhaligon breaks into Beck's apartment (tellingly juxtaposed with Floyd stalking Judith), swipes his revolver and holds Beck at gunpoint. The scene ends with Beck prone as Penhaligon shoves the pistol down his throat, calmly promising to kill him. It's great stuff, a chilling cliffhanger that sets the stage for even darker tragedy.

Cracker: The Big Crunch

The Big Crunch 
Air dates: 10/31, 11/7 and 11/14/1994
Written: Ted Whitehead

Directed: Julian Jarrold

"A desperate grope and a hopeless shag in a godless universe."

The Big Crunch was the first episode not written by Jimmy McGovern. McGovern had tired of the show, and though he contributed two further scripts (Men Should Weep and Brotherly Love), he leaned on Ted Whitehead and Paul Abbot as replacements. Possibly Crunch was intended as a breather, a routine whodunnit between two exceedingly bleak episodes. As a Cracker episode though, it's not up to snuff.

The Manchester police investigate the disappearance of Joanne Barnes (Samantha Morton), an outcast 16 year old. DCI Wise believes Joanne merely ran away, but Fitz isn't so sure. After Joanne turns up drugged and tattooed with curious writing, police arrest Dean Saunders (Darrell Tighe), a mentally deficient handyman with a thing for Joanne. But Fitz believes that Jim Trant (Jim Carter), Joanne's school teacher and leader of a small Christian sect, holds the key to the mystery.

Most TV shows have a sizable staff that can survive the departure of individual writers. True, they provide different shades to their work: distinct takes on the protagonists, personalized dialogue, focus on pet themes. But a program like CSI remains basically the same, whether Dustin Lee Abraham or Elizabeth Devine pens an individual episode. Cracker was Jimmy McGovern's show, possessing a distinct voice even in his weaker installments. Neither of his replacements handled the stories or characters half so well.

The Big Crunch suffers from its strictly formula approach. There are few easier targets than religious fanatics, so Whitehead earns no originality points by revealing Trant as a hypocrite. Worse, the villains lack McGovern's humanizing touch: Trant is a power-mad pervert, his wife and sister-in-law angry biddies, with only Michael and Dean receiving any sympathy. Coming right after the brilliant To Be a Somebody, with its rich characterization and emotional angst, Crunch feels disappointingly rote.

Whitehead's scenes of personal drama feel perfunctory, when not exaggerated. During one heated exchange, Fitz throws a for sale sign through Judith's windshield! It's a funny moment, yet plays a bit too broad on this understated show. Fitz and Penhaligon finally go to bed, a development which understandably distresses Mark. Their scenes work well; by now Robbie Coltrane and Geraldine Somervile have such easy chemistry they overcome Whitehead's pedestrian script.

Even better, Lorcan Cranitch shows the first cracks in Jimmy Beck's sanity. Disgusted with himself for showing compassion to Albie, he browbeats Dean into confessing, with dire consequences. Fitz doesn't help by twisting the knife, nastily telling Jimmy (after Beck blames Fitz for Dean's suicide) that now they both feel the burden of causing someone's death. Beck's suspicion that Penhaligon betrayed his confidence over Bilborough's death sets the upcoming conflict in motion.

Jim Carter makes ideal casting as Trant. He's the perfect mixture of smooth charisma, craven selfishness and righteous hypocrisy, making a one-note villain credible. As Trant's wife and sister-in-law, Maureen O'Brien and Cherith Taylor exude understated nastiness. But Samantha Morton hasn't much to do other than act distraught, and Darren Tighe's man-child act wears thin fast. Worst is James Fleet as Trant's brother Michael, a walking plot device.

Big Crunch's biggest misstep comes in its structure, with Whitehead making everything too neat and convenient. Fitz has a heart-to-heart with Mark, who reveals a grasp of astrophysics never hinted at elsewhere. Just so happens his theoretical model of the universe matches the drawings on Joanne's body. Imagine! But that's nothing next to the cringeworthy denouement, where Fitz browbeats Trant before a congregation, before Michael finally confesses. In a Hitchcock movie, this might feel clever or at least organic. On Cracker, it just doesn't work.

Cracker: To Be a Somebody

To Be a Somebody 
Air Dates: 10/10, 10/17 & 10/24/1994
Written: Jimmy McGovern
Directed: Tim Fywell

"We're not getting treated like scum any more. We're getting treated like wild animals. And, yeah, one or two of us start acting like wild animals and the cages go up and ninety-six people die."

We arrive at Cracker's seminal episode. To Be a Somebody, the second season premiere, is the show's watershed, Jimmy McGovern's magnum opus. Its dramatic power, emotional depth and thematic complexity remains untouched. This may well be my favorite television episode ever.

Albie Kinsella (Robert Carlyle) leads a bitter existence. His father recently died, his wife (Tracey Gillman) leaves him, his coworkers condescend to him. One day Albie argues with a Pakistani shopkeeper (Badi Uzzaman) and snaps. Albie murders him impulsively, later justifying it as part of a master plan. Fitz divines Albie's trying to avenge the 96 victims of the Hillsborough tragedy. Fitz's relations with Bilborough remain strained, while Judith takes another stab at fixing their marriage. Then Jimmy Beck makes a boneheaded mistake with tragic consequences.

To Be a Somebody dissects white male angst. McGovern explicitly recalls Taxi Driver, with Albie sporting army fatigues and shaved head. He's not only angry but articulate, a Scouse demagogue toting an army bayonet, spouting violent disquisitions against the Labour Party selling out his class. (One wonders what he'd make of Tony Blair.) Besides the shopkeeper, he targets a patronizing psychologist (Glyn Grain) and a snotty Sun reporter (Beth Goddard). Albie lashes out at working class bugbears: immigrants, police, intellectuals, the media. The skinheads Bilborough initially targets would approve. Albie makes a frightening creation, getting revenge by playing down to a stereotype.

Albie repeatedly invokes Hillsborough, a 1989 soccer crush which killed 96 people. Subsequent inquests, investigations, lawsuits and frenzied press coverage muddled the issue, with overzealous police and poor stadium design receiving most of the blame. Reflected in the show, Rupert Murdoch's The Sun caused widespread outrage blaming the victims for their own deaths. Hillsborough remains a deeply-felt trauma: just last year, the Hillsborough Independent Panel released a detailed report of the tragedy. For McGovern, himself a working class Liverpudlian, Hillsborough takes on a very personal resonance.

McGovern received criticism for employing this tragedy for drama. (He'd later pen Hillsborough, an acclaimed drama starring several Cracker actors.) Yet it's hard to fault McGovern's handling of it. For Albie, Hillsborough embodies society's injustice, with the system regarding lower class whites as a subhuman rabble. To mitigate our sympathy, it's clear Albie has personal reasons for killing, warping a pointless murder into a righteous quest. Somebody's complexity is a far cry from Law & Order shows crassly "ripped from the headlines."

Robert Carlyle used Cracker as a springboard to high profile movies: Trainspotting, The Full Monty, The World is Not Enough. Arguably, Carlyle's never topped his brilliant turn here. His vicious, wolf-like features make him a natural villain, yet Carlyle's too smart to limit his characterization. Instead he shows Albie's wounded vulnerability after lifelong insults and condescension, evinced in pained expressions and polished soliloquies tinged with sadness. Thanks to Carlyle, we sense someone pitiably human behind the killings.

Somebody plays its dramatic trump halfway through. I've expressed reservations at Cracker placing its characters in jeopardy, but DCI Bilborough's death undeniably works. Supposedly conceived as a dramatic exit for Christopher Eccleston, it proves a powerful hinge by giving the police extremely personal motivation. Most of all Jimmy Beck: outwitted by Albie in an interview, he immediately blames himself for Bilborough's death. Later on, he savagely beats Albie as the beginning of an epic downward spiral.

Bilborough's passing makes way for Ricky Tomlinson's DCI Wise. Wise proved inconsistently written: in McGovern's episodes his competence makes a good ballast against his damaged subordinates. In other shows he rarely transcended the typical gruff, tough boss. He makes a fine first impression though, instantly earning his officers' respect: "Put your clothes on or I'll rip your dick off," he warns Albie after the latter demands pictures of Beck-inflicted injuries. His meeting with Fitz indicates a more comfortable relationship than Bilborough.

Fitz spends the first installment sidelined; Bilborough's reluctant to call him in after the previous episode. Judith seems ready to leave Fitz, dumping his alcohol and storming out of the house (after a night of passion, of course). These scenes play as comic relief against the starker main plot. Fitz argues with Mark in a supermarket, then berates an old lady ("Two bottles of whiskey constitutes one item!"). He wheedles his way in by imparting theories to DC Harriman (Colin Tierney), something Penhaligon instantly picks up on ("How is Fitz?"). Penhaligon resents Fitz standing her up, yet Bilborough's death reunites them.

The interrogation scenes provide Cracker's meat, something even weaker installments get right. The last 20 minutes of Somebody crackle with energy, as Fitz probes Albie's damaged psyche. For once, the show doesn't strain credulity with its lack of lawyers. Albie shows pride in his work, fancying himself smarter than any copper, a match even for Fitz. Yet for all Albie's platitudes, Fitz forces him to confront his personal motivations. Even when McGovern ups the ante with a last minute threat, their personal interplay drives events.

Ultimately, Somebody proves even darker than One Day a Lemming Will Fly. The killer's caught and two plots aborted, yet Albie's perorations that "This country's going to blow" ring in our ears. Then a bomb explodes at The Sun, causing untold carnage. It's a profoundly unsettling conclusion, suggesting more Albies waiting to be born.

Cracker: One Day a Lemming Will Fly

One Day a Lemming Will Fly 
Air dates: 11/1 and 11/8/93 
Written: Jimmy McGovern 
Directed: Simon Cellan Jones

"I like mysteries, but I rather dislike muddles." - E.M. Forster, A Passage to India

Some of Cracker's more perceptive analysts (Lawrence Russell, Mark Duguid) view it through the prism of masculinity challenged: psychological male order disrupted by crime, deviant sexuality or changing social mores. This feels especially valid given the show's setting within the "man's world" of police. Crime's impact on survivors proves just as important as the victims themselves, as family and the police crack under pressure. Confronted with enactments of their base fantasies, people react badly.

One Day a Lemming Will Fly touches heavily on these themes. It also centers on that most maddening occurrence: an insoluble mystery. But that's only one aspect of this extraordinary show, arguably Cracker's finest hour, where its hero (and his methods) is subjected to brutal deconstruction.

Teenaged boy Timothy Lang is found murdered in the woods. Several witnesses prove reluctant to come forward, complicating DCI Bilborough's investigation. Suspicion centers on Nigel Cassidy (Christopher Fulford), Timothy's teacher, who tries to kill himself shortly after the boy's death. Fitz believes Cassidy harbored feelings for Timothy, browbeating the suspect into confession. But even as public pressure to solve the case mounts, Fitz realizes Cassidy might be innocent.

One Day a Lemming Will Fly hinges largely on male insecurity. Timothy appears to be a tormented young man: "more a girl than a boy," he's picked on at school, ignored by his feuding parents (Tim Healy and Frances Tomelty) and comforted by Cassidy. His brother (Lee Hartney) reacts by lashing out at a school bully; his father resents him as a victim, saying he wished the boy killed himself instead. Rather than taking charge of his life, Mr. Lang suggests, Timothy was "a victim to the end": the antithesis of a man.

Then there's Nigel Cassidy. Christopher Fulford's nervy performance highlights the teacher's insecurity. Introduced slugging a punching bag, he constantly throws out assurances of his manliness which Fitz recognizes instantly. His affection towards Timothy exceeds pedagogical guidance, yet he rankles at the suggestion of homosexuality. What greater threat to masculinity is there? It certainly rankles Jimmy Beck, who bombards Cassidy with homophobic slurs, then shaves his mustache after Fitz suggest he's sublimating gay feelings himself.

In this context, Christopher Eccleston's DCI Bilborough gets his most compelling characterization. He's challenged both professionally and personally, trading barbs with his boss (Edward Peel) and a pathologist (Geoffrey Hutchings) incongruously dressed as Napoleon. Mainly he's preoccupied with wife Catriona's (Amelia Bullmore) pregnancy, which increasingly bleeds into his work. Even Beck thinks Bilborough goes too far berating one witness for not coming forward sooner. With the DCI so wrapped up in paternal anxiety, it's little wonder his professional conduct suffers.

This affects the female leads, too. Judith tries to reconcile with Fitz while remaining unrepentant about her fling with Graham. Fitz withholds sex from her and, for the first time, seriously contemplates sleeping with Penhaligon. "Panhandle" herself resents being delegated the "sensitive" work of comforting victims, and Bilborough claiming her feelings for Fitz interfere with her work. "I thought you were an absolute gob shite!" she tells Bilborough, with evident relish, after a rude interview. Even Penhaligon, hardened against sexist gibes, has her limits; Fitz standing her up adds insult to injury.

McGovern extends this challenge to order beyond gender roles. Lemming recalls a host of disparate fiction: A Passage to India, Picnic at Hanging Rock, Zodiac. These films show survivors going mad contemplating an enigma. As viewers we like stories wrapped up neatly, especially when real life isn't so tidy. True enigmas are maddening: witness the ongoing obsession with Jack the Ripper or Amelia Earhart. Fitz's fear that the killer will strike again is never followed through: it's a random, pointless act, leaving only questions and grief.

Nor is the notion of an innocent man sent into the dock very comforting. Groggy's a huge fan of 10 Rillington Place, Richard Fleischer's docudrama about serial killer John Reginald Christie, who framed an innocent man, Timothy Evans, for his crimes. McGovern shows a gang of locals, led by Timothy's father, mobbing the police station and twice trying to murder Cassidy. Bilborough buckles under, deciding that results (and good PR) outweigh justice. Even after Cassidy admits his innocence Bilborough keeps him locked up, leading to a temporary break with Fitz.

Yet Fitz himself is hardly blameless. Robbie Coltrane does brilliant work showing Fitz at a low ebb. Showing unusual tenderness, he comforts Timothy's grieving family, talking them through their conflicted feelings. Yet elsewhere he's constantly failing: he wins at gambling but gets roughed up by casino toughs. He alienates Judith while betraying Penhaligon. He's caught up in the hunt for Cassidy no less than Bilborough and Beck, confronting the suspect with sexual questions and even driving away his girlfriend. It's terrifying watching his skills drive an innocent man to confess.

Cassidy's ultimate decision, to take the rap so Fitz can "share my burden," is repugnant but understandable. Even if he recants or somehow gets off, his life's ruined: no job, no girlfriend, a public pariah, a multitude of sexual questions. All because law enforcement's failure to solve a murder became a public embarrassment. There's no getting around the fact that Fitz was absolutely, devastatingly wrong. And unlike most detectives, there's no last minute redemption.

There lies Lemming's brilliance. Few television programs, at least of that era, make their protagonist so morally compromised. Fitz blames Bilborough for jailing an innocent man, even though he led the DCI to that conclusion. At show's end he returns to Judith instead of joining Penhaligon on holiday. Knowing Fitz, this is more lassitude than morality. We know next week he'll be back gambling, smoking and chasing "Panhandle." It's just his nature.

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Hope you've enjoyed these installments so far! Before plunging into series two, I'll take a break and review some actual movies. This is a film blog, after all...

Cracker: The Mad Woman in the Attic/To Say I Love You

Uninitiated? For a brief primer on Cracker, click here.

The Mad Woman in the Attic 
Air dates: 9/27/93 and 10/4/93
Written: Jimmy McGovern
Directed: Michael Winterbottom

"Nobody ever loses their memory. It gets locked away like a madwoman in the attic. Occasionally you hear her scream, but you don't unlock the door and have a look."

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

"What is death, Panhandle?"
"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.

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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.

Cracker: An Introduction

"I drink too much, I smoke too much, I gamble too much. I am too much!"

Among the glut of '90s British crime dramas, two stand out. One was Prime Suspect (1991-1996, 2003-2006), Lynda La Plante's long-running series with Helen Mirren. This series gained acclaim for highlighting sexism within traditionally masculine environments and protagonist Jane Tennison's struggle with alcoholism; a character study within a smashing police procedural. La Plante's fearless examination of social issues, and Mirren's striking performance, made Prime Suspect an international hit.

Jimmy McGovern's Cracker (1993-1996) successfully ran on iTV simultaneous to Suspect, yet never matched its international breakout status (a flaccid American reboot notwithstanding). McGovern's drama is a worthy companion piece, perhaps even better: it mixes crime drama and political commentary with a sharp character study, creating a masterpiece far ahead of its time. Cracker's layered plot, twisted character dynamics and general complexity are remarkable for a show that produced only nine episodes.

Cracker follows many precepts of your standard police drama. Its protagonist, Edward "Fitz" Fitzgerald (Robbie Coltrane), is a brilliant criminal psychologist who helps the Manchester police. Strict realism goes out the window when Fitz savagely questions suspects without a lawyer present. So far, so familiar. But McGovern adds trenchant satire and tortured family drama. There's a hero who's not only a personal wreck, but possesses a spotty professional record. There are policemen (and women) just as damaged as the criminals. More generally, there's a trenchant, scathing look at post-Thatcher England.

Make no mistake, Cracker is a very English show - just not the posh, refined England we expect. The Greater Manchester Police sport regional dialects: Fitz is Scottish, Beck Irish, Wise Liverpudlian, the rest convincingly Mancunian. Characters follow football (soccer for us Yanks) and down dirty beer in dingy pubs. Blue collar whites, colored immigrants and foreigners all face discrimination, distrust and destitution. It's a much grimmer, darker Britain than American viewers expect, evincing a distinct working class rage.

Thus the layered villains. Most of McGovern's antagonists come from society's lower dregs, channeling engrained rage into violent action. McGovern expertly navigates a tightrope: he sympathizes with outcasts driven to murder, but won't glamorize their actions. Albie Kinsella's existential anguish is palpable, yet he's still a bastard who murders five people. We pity Floyd Malcolm's racial shame until recalling that he's a serial rapist. Maggie Harvey's justified anger at prostitutes doesn't excuse killing them. McGovern rails against the system but avoids espousing homicide as the solution.

Then there's Fitz himself, a classic anti-hero. At first glance he's not dissimilar from Sherlock Holmes or Columbo, an ace detective with a keen eye for detail. Where Holmes occasionally indulges in drugs, Fitz's vices completely consume him - especially gambling. "Why not a normal addiction?" wife Judith (Barbara Flynn) asks, reasoning heroin would at least kill him. McGovern shows Fitz's home life to be a shambles, with Judith flaunting her affairs and son Mark (Kieran O'Brien) all but disowning him. It's a palpable tragedy: Fitz, usually able to instantly decode criminals, remains oblivious to his own failings.

Most viewers see Robbie Coltrane as a comic actor, unfair to this multi-layered talent. Coltrane certainly indulges witty remarks, flirtation and James Cagney impressions throughout the show; Fitz is, along with everything else, highly amusing. Yet Coltrane's Scots bonhomie, channeled into drama, becomes a force of nature. Coltrane can display naive vulnerability; Fitz genuinely loves Judith and Mark, never understanding why they resent him. But interrogating suspects he's a force, probing for weakness with sensitive interrogation before exploding in hateful rage. Coltrane's brilliant acting ballasts even weaker installments.

The rich ensemble cast can't be done justice here. Barbara Flynn brilliantly shows Judith's impatience with her intolerable husband. She's balanced with Fitz's sometime-lover Jane Penhaligon (Geraldine Somerville), an ambitious lady cop well-written and acted enough to avoid being a Jane Tennison manque. Impulsive DCI Billborough (Christopher Eccleston) places "results" ahead of justice; DCI Wise (Ricky Tomlinson) provides a level-headed contrast. Then there's DS Jimmy Beck (Lorcan Cranitch), a boorish Irishman whose demons drive the show's most affecting arc. Frequently the side characters eclipse Fitz, sometimes spectacularly so.

If there's any weakness to McGovern's formula, it's his predilection for placing protagonists in jeopardy. It makes sense that police themselves become targets, and it's undeniably powerful when certain characters get killed or traumatized. Yet the trick wears thin over time, especially moments in Men Should Weep and True Romance where criminals menace Fitz's family. When handled well, this escalation proves extremely effective; when botched, it devolves the gritty procedural to cheap melodrama.

The cast brims with budding British talent. Coltrane remains familiar from Harry Potter, where he rejoined Geraldine Somerville. Lorcan Cranitch subsequently had high-profile roles on Ballykissangel and Rome, while Christopher Eccleston became a short-lived Doctor Who. Robert Carlyle parlayed his chilling guest appearance into myriad film (Trainspotting, The Full Monty) and television (Hamish Macbeth, Once Upon a Time) roles. Liam Cunningham (The Wind That Shakes the Barley), Samantha Morton (Elizabeth: The Golden Age) and Jim Carter (Downton Abbey) feature in one-off roles.

But Cracker's influence extends far beyond cast ubiquity. One can't credit McGovern alone for shifting television towards morally ambiguous protagonists. Yet Fitz undoubtedly presages anti-heroic detectives like Monk and Luther, let alone non-genre heroes like House. All protagonists who are severely flawed, often morally suspect, but undeniably brilliant in their respective fields. Fitz one-ups even these latecomers, however, by occasionally proving spectacularly wrong. Even Fitz's expertise doesn't always redeem him.

From here on, we'll examine the series through its individual episodes, however long that may take. I'd intended to dissect one episode per series, yet there's too much going on for a limited analysis. Each episode (even two one-off specials) thus earns a review, though I'll still single out standout episodes. Hopefully this approach does Cracker justice.

One final note: these reviews contain massive spoilers. I've no reticence about spoiling a 20 year old series for one, and it's impossible to discuss certain ongoing plots without referring to previous episodes. You've been warned.