I don’t know where I was for the first series of Line Of Duty, presumably residing under a stone, but, regardless of this omission from my televisual CV, the show’s second series has well and truly sky-rocketed its way into the much coveted position (a girl can dream) of My New Favourite Thing.
Starring
a gaunt, alarmingly changeable Keeley Hawes, Line Of Duty follows the progress
of a police anti-corruption unit, as they investigate the actions of a female
police officer suspected of assisting in a fatal ambush on a police convoy. For
the uninitiated, the convoy in question was tasked with transporting a
vulnerable witness to a new safehouse due to an immediate and credible ‘threat
to life’. All involved, including the witness himself, perished. Except, that
is, for DI Lindsay Denton (Hawes) who emerged unscathed but for a spot of decorative
whiplash. ‘Seemingly unhinged’ being rather the tip of the iceburg to say the very
least, Denton seems an obvious fit for the role of ‘guilty as charged’, but is
all as clear cut as it seems?
Sucker
for a police drama though I wholeheartedly admit to being - I blame the
uniforms- this particular show is easily a cut or three above the rest. Its
nearest ancestor undoubtedly being fellow BBC production Spooks, also starring Hawes, it has echoes of the same brutality
and cruel unpredictability. In short, nobody is safe. It’s also easily as
addictive. Wednesday night is re-born ‘Line Of Duty’ night in my flat, despite
my being the only current resident watching it. Missing an episode simply isn’t
an option. Part of the reason for this is the plot – with more twists and turns
than a helter skelter, it’s impossible to foresee developments without the aid of
a highly qualified psychic. Jed Mercurio’s script really is excellent. Always
wholly believable, dripping with gallows humour, it shocks without resorting to
the shock factor, steering clear of police drama clichés to create an edgy new
style all of its own.
Another
reason for tuning in so compulsively, however, is the utterly outstanding
performances of all involved. Vicky McClure,
Adrian Dunbar and Martin Compston are all totally fabulous, but it is Hawes who
steals the show week after week, scene after scene. One moment psychopathic,
the next hugely vulnerably and pitiful, Hawes’ real and clever performance
keeps us on our toes from opening seconds to credits. She’s also bravely low on
the make-up front, bearing in mind the harshly low interrogation style lighting
favoured by a lot of the generic ‘office’ rooms the show is filmed in, even joking
in the Guardian ‘I don’t think anyone has ever looked so bad on TV’. Clearly
she’s never seen My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding,
but nevertheless if she doesn’t win a Bafta I’m throwing my telly out of the
window in protest.
Slick,
sharp and hard as nails, this is a miss it, miss out sort of drama. Set the
record on your Sky plus box and huddle round your laptop for BBC iplayer – this
is one show not to just ‘never get around to watching’.
But I
must dash, the next episode starts in 79 minutes.
Jen
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