HOLDING THE NOTE (Found in the Connection: Rattling Loose End #145)

My region just got an oldies station back a few months ago (after many years of going without), so I have something to listen to besides classic rock and talk radio when I drive to town.

On my way to a haircut today I ran into the Reflections’ “(Just Like) Romeo and Juliet” a top ten one hit wonder from 1964. Sounded great. Greater for having been gone so long (I probably haven’t heard it since the last oldies station went off the air more than a decade ago).

I was driving along, half-remembering the words, thinking how Our love’s gonna be written down in hist-o-ry…Just like Romeo and Juliet! had turned out to be prophetic. What’s it been? Fifty-five years? More time than passed between the end of the American Civil War and the end of World War I?

Seems like that love has been written down in history.

And then….

The song reached the climactic close (do any songs climax anymore? at the close or anywhere else? yes, I know they climax from the first note to the last, it’s one long drone of a climax, song after song, but that’s not quite the same thing is it?), and the lead singer started holding a note (like hadn’t been done for the whole song–that’s what climaxing is all about) and kept right on holding it for God knew how long.

I confess I never heard that note before. Not really heard it mean. I probably noticed it…but that’s not the same thing either is it. Because hearing it–as opposed to merely noticing it–took the song to a whole other level. I’m going to pay much closer attention in the future and I bet by the time I plumb this mystery I’ll have even memorized the words, something forty years of previous listening (in 1978, K-Tel was a thing, and probably not the best way to be introduced to this music even if it was often the only way) hadn’t convinced me was worth the effort.

It starts around the 2:05 mark and lasts the rest of the song, something like thirteen seconds.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DDq4-oEC76Q

And just to prove it was no studio trick, here’s that same lead singer, Tony Micale, in 2015, holding it exactly like he did on the record–so far as I could tell, to the second.

Take that Shakespeare.

THE LAST TEN MOVIES I WATCHED….AND WHY I WATCHED THEM (December, 2018 Edition)

Nov. 25-Henry V (1944, d. Laurence Olivier, Third Viewing)

Because I like Olivier doing Shakespeare better than I like him doing anything else even if he doesn’t break the droning mold the Brits have carved out for Shakespeare’s impossibly alive language. Everything is read like a sacred text (Renee Asherson, allowed to speak mostly French, comes off loosest and best). But the play-within-a-play narrative is ingenious and Olivier the director gave Olivier the actor a great stage with his stirring reenactment of Agincourt. Except for John Sturges in Escape From Fort Bravo, no one has ever caught the terror and excitement of a fleet of deadly arrows better. I’d be surprised if Sturges, one of the very greatest action directors, didn’t learn a thing or two from this one.

Nov. 26-Three Days of the Condor (1975, d. Sydney Pollack, Umpteenth Viewing)

For the great cast and tick-tock plot, of course. But, these days, mostly because I don’t want those evil bastards in the shadows to think getting away with it is the same as me not knowing they are there. Here of late, I try to watch either this or Wag the Dog at least once a month.

Dec. 2-El Dorado (1966, d. Howard Hawks, Umpteenth Viewing)

Heck, who doesn’t want to spend two hours with these guys, even if it’s to mark Michele Carey’s passing? Especially the “badge with a drunk pinned on it.” You can tell which one he is if you look close enough. Robert Mitchum was interviewed on late night TV years later and told the story of how he came to be hired. “Howard” he said, “What’s the story?” “Oh, no story Bob, just character.” I watched this with my Dad once and, when ithe credits rolled, he said: “What the hell was that supposed to be about?” I mumbled something that didn’t mean much. I forgot Mitchum’s story. It would have been the perfect answer. No story, Dad….just character. I guess where he is now, they’ve explained it all. ‘Cause I know they’re watching El Dorado.

Dec. 3-Live a Little, Love a Little (1968, d. Norman Taurog, Third Viewing)

While I was in a Michele Carey mood, I thought I might as well keep it going. She’s highly entertaining and Elvis seems to realize he might be on to something. Also better than usual music, including “A Little Less Conversation” which had to wait several decades for its time to come around. Dated, like all Sixties-Elvis movies, but fun.

Dec. 3-Girl Happy (1965, d. Boris Sagal, Umpteenth Viewing)

Maybe because it was the first Elvis movie I saw (on a black and white television, in 1976, after the lights were out), I have fond memories of this one. It was also the only Elvis movie I ever saw without being at all aware of any connotations that might come with the term “Elvis movie.”  That might be why it has held up whenever I’ve watched it on a semi-regular basis ever since. Elvis might have had better leading ladies than Shelley Fabares or Mary Ann Mobley…but he never had a better double-team. And I stand by “Wolf Call,” “The Meanest Girl in Town” and the title track as seductive, Devil’s Island pop-and-roll, I don’t care what anybody says!

Dec. 3-A Walk on the Moon (1999, d. Tony Goldwyn, First Viewing)

Because it was recommended over at Greil Marcus’s mailbag a while back and Diane Lane is a pretty good bet anytime. Diane Lane and Woodstock seemed an irresistible combination and it pays off in a lovely look at the limits of traditional family life colliding with the emerging counterculture. The best scene in the movie barely involves the fine cast. It’s a shot of nude bathers wandering into the upstate New York mountain not-exactly-resort lake where nice, working class Jewish families go to get away from the city. The director doesn’t overplay his hand. There’s a confrontation, but no “big scene.” Lane’s face is shown in reaction as she stands on the near shore, swathed in  safety. No dialogue. Just a glimpse of her face that says I wish I was over there. The implications of taking that step are the whole movie. It’s not a classic, but it’s a good film, and a rare look at what a revolution in mores really costs.

Dec. 4-Me Without You (2001, d. Sandra Goldbacher, Second Viewing)

Because it was time to revisit the lacerating performances by Anna Friel and, especially, Michelle Williams, as they come of age in end-of-the-century Britain. Williams was such an unknown (to me at least) and overpowering presence when I first saw this shortly after its release to video, that I didn’t fully appreciate Friel’s equally great performance, though I was aware it must have been better than good to have simply kept up. From this distance, I could see some of the plot machinations working themselves out, but it didn’t really matter. Once the characters are fully integrated into their own lives–and each other’s–the question of whether and how they can possibly remain friends is as fraught with peril as any “real” lives could be. Knowing how it ended did not make it less destabilizing. It was Goldbacher’s third feature. She’s made only one since. If making them takes as much out of her as watching this one does out of me, I’m not surprised.

Dec. 4-The Day of the Jackal (1973, d. Fred Zinnemann, Umpteenth Viewing)

For Edward Fox’s chilly and chilling performance as an assassin on the trail of Charles DeGaulle. I finally got around to reading the book in the last year or two and it proved even better–the question of whether “The Jackal” is a sociopath is held much longer, almost to the very end. But the suspense here–built by Fred Zinnemann’s docu-drama style–is real. Watching this always reminds me how little any of us know about what’s really going on. And you know how that twists my guts.

Dec. 5-I Know Where I’m Going (1945, d. Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, Third Viewing)

To watch Wendy Hillerman and Roger Livesey play out one of the screen’s most realistically prosaic–and, paradoxically, hopelessly romantic–love stories. We know they’re meant for each other almost from the moment they meet. But do they know? Even on repeated viewings it’s not a settled question, perhaps because the evocation of the wild Scottish north country permits nothing to be taken for granted. Among the finest films in the English language, even if a fair bit of it is spoken in Gaelic.

Dec. 6-The Man From the Alamo (1953, d. Budd Boetticher, Fourth Viewing)

For another of Glenn Ford’s terse, un-heroic western heroes. Years before his collaborations with screenwriter Burt Kennedy and star Randolph Scott, Budd Beotticher proves he can get along without them (even if Kennedy is missed–there’s way too much exposition at the beginning). This one also shows he was a master of big action scenes before they gave way to the intimate, almost unbearably tense gunfights that were a staple of the films that later made his reputation. The story–of a man who leaves the Alamo in order to save his family, only to be branded a coward–is a good one and the climax is nearly as exciting as the best of John Ford or Anthony Mann. A good one to close the cycle on after subjecting myself to a more-than-usual amount of modern angst!

…Til next time!

BACK ON TRACK…MEANING SCARY AGAIN…BUT ONLY IF YOU’RE PAYING STRICT ATTENTION: HOMELAND SEASON 6

Homeland: Season 6

In Season 6, Homeland pulls off a miracle. In the past, including the anemic Season 5, the show has always worked best when Carrie Mathison is off her meds. That’s because Carrie has always been best at her job–keeping herself both interested and alive (she’ll settle for the second part if it comes to the rest of us, as it periodically must, in order for us to be interested as well)–when she’s gone full manic-depressive. How people who actually have the condition feel about it I don’t know nor can I judge how “realistic” this portrayal of mental illness is. But, up to now, and strictly in a narrative sense, Crazy Carrie has been interesting Carrie. More to the point, Crazy Carrie has been best adapted to deal with the cauldron around her, which only involves the security of the free world.

In Season 6, Crazy Carrie is kept firmly on the sidelines. It’s the stories that  count…and they all work.

Of course this comes with caveats. Stable Carrie is still way less stable than most people, even the monsters who surround her (and who feed and are fed by her) in the Homeland universe. And it should go without saying that not every scene works in a 12-episode arc. Maybe Shakespeare or Henry James could have kept everything boiling without wandering too far afield. But that’s too much to expect from teams of anyone, let alone teams of Hollywood moderns. Master Narrative has turned out to be a solitary art after all.

But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t stand amazed at what Homeland does do–which is continue to poke a stick in the eye of the Security State’s own principal Narrative.

The Security State, however named, insists on one message: You need us.

If they were ever pressed to elaborate (as they never are) they might expand that a bit:

You KNOW you need us.

That’s their message and it is relentless.

You can tune in the broadcast channel of your choice, read the newspaper you like best (or least), or listen to talk radio, and have this message reinforced and underlined twenty-four hours a day. I doubt even Alex Jones or Michael Savage (Jones is parodied but not really captured here by the usually reliable Jake Weber, loaded up with a Texas accent Jones, a Texan, doesn’t have, and a Manchurian Candidate subplot that works pretty well in context but doesn’t score any points for originality–the idea of the rabble-rousing flamethrower being in bed with the enemy he publicly despises was old and tired when Joe McCarthy was in diapers) would really contest the idea that the CIA (or NSA or FBI or any other alphabet agency) perform useful functions if/when they are managed properly. No one else who could be called mainstream even questions the absolute necessity of the Security State’s existence.

Well no one else but whoever is responsible for Homeland.

That none of our intelligence services have ever done any demonstrable good–and have done much demonstrable harm (even the FBI, even in the operation of their one legitimate law enforcement function, which is the pursuit of criminals operating across state lines), has mattered little to the overarching public narrative.

That’s how it is with Security States. Once you permit one to exist, it will have a single, unalterable goal: It’s own survival.

This is what Homeland has done an even more brilliant job of portraying than its popcorn predecessor, 24.

One thing it hasn’t done at all well–something 24 didn’t do well either except in Seasons 1 and 5–is integrate the Personal stories with the Political and Spy stories.

This has been more disappointing in Homeland because Claire Danes and Mandy Patinkin are much better actors than Keifer Sutherland–and they are playing much more interesting characters.

I’m not quite prepared to call them three-dimensional. That’s a tall ask on television. But that such a question can even be considered is extraordinary.

Carrie Mathison and Saul Berenson do, after all, have inner lives. And those inner lives impact how they do the jobs that keep them, and us, interested. The principal dynamic from the beginning has been Carrie’s hope/belief that she can somehow walk away from it all running into, around and (occasionally–she did try to have him killed) over Saul, who knows she can’t and knows he can never let her know. Not unless he wants to lose his best agent/asset, which she remains, always, even when, as here, she’s not working for him. In his mind, letting her go would be the same as losing himself, which–also in his mind–would be the same as losing the world.

One reason Homeland, especially Season 6, works so well, is that very little of this is foregrounded. Despite the occasional blunt, obligatory confrontation scenes–most of them intelligent though hardly deep or even clever–most of this seeps out of the air. It’s walking around inside the characters and the less they talk about it, the more undeniable its presence becomes.

The other reason Season 6 is the best since the first is that everything else finally links up with this half-buried dynamic.

Yes, Carrie’s now a full-time a mom, but that just means the State has another especially creepy and suffocating weapon to use against her. Among other things she can’ t go off her meds. At least not until the State makes a mistake and actually takes the child away–then makes clear how contingent seeing her daughter is on Carrie behaving herself before (in a twist that may or may not be revealing…is it really a mistake? or just one of those glitches even the most rigorous police state cannot avoid?) pushing their advantage too far. In an especially deft move, we don’t see Carrie’s full response. We only see Saul, in her house, staring at the signature handiwork of her manic phase that we’re familiar with from earlier seasons.

From that foundation, the story builds out. The Peter Quinn angle is finally strong and has a powerful conclusion–one that links into the fates of two characters played by actors who are given enough space to compete with Claire/Carrie and Mandy/Saul and are more than up to the task. That  F. Murray Abraham’s  Dar Adal is all that isn’t surprising. He and his character have been strong since first appearing and Abraham’s qualities as an actor are well established. But Elizabeth Marvel, saddled with the show creators’ assumption that Hilary Clinton would be President as this season unfolded, is a revelation.

My only impression of Marvel going in was as the older Mattie Ross in the Coen brothers fine version of True Grit, where she was the only weak link.

Here, she’s all presence. It’s like seeing a real-life Mattie become President, with all the terror that implies (a Mattie who wanted to avenge her father’s blood was terrifying only to his killer–a Mattie who wants to be President should scare everyone).

Of course the show cheats a bit. Whether they were caught completely off-guard and had to go with a contingency plan or simply had the foresight to have such a contingency in case Clinton lost I’m sure no one will ever credibly explain. (Someone may explain. They may have already done so. But I credit these same people with schooling me on the perils of trusting anyone.) Either way, they were caught with the prospect of an obvious Hilary stand-in. So they did the only thing they could and turned her into Donald Trump. And not the actual Trump but the Trump of liberal nightmare. Marvel’s Elizabeth Keane has Trump’s foreign policy (or at least his public campaign strategy) of curtailing the empire (i.e., the part that has him at war with the Security State in the first place). She has mobs in the street yelling death threats and “Not my President.” She’s being shivved from every side.

And she’s merciless.

Had she even (unimaginably) given it a go, the real life Hilary could never have pulled this off.

But Elizabeth Marvel does. Among other things, she does for the idea of a woman President what Hillary couldn’t do (and I’d of said the same if she won), which is what Dennis Haysbert’s David Palmer did for the idea of a black president in 24.

Makes it seem as natural as breathing. So much so that I can easily imagine this performance changing the outcome of the election if it had happened two years earlier.

The Hillary-as-the-real-Trump–whether planned all along, or conjured on the fly–works better than even those of us who believe any stick is good enough to beat the Security State with could have hoped. The shadow war Trump has played out with our Stasi wannabes in the “real” world bursts into the open in Season 6 of Homeland.

And I won’t give the ending away. But if the show’s creators really did plan this all along, and really did think Hillary was going to be elected President in 2016, they’re even braver than I thought.

Which is going some.

*NOTE: Critics Consensus on Rotten Tomatoes: Homeland delivers introspective comfort food with a satisfyingly strong leading female character and story lines that continue to surprise.

Introspective comfort food?

See what I mean about the Security State controlling the Narrative?

ROCK AND ROLL SCREENINGS (Take 7: Grease)

Grease (1978)
Director: Randal Kaiser

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Or, as someone said on some appropriately famous occasion: Oh the humanity!

Well, so some people think. I’ll just have to set them straight.

First off, I like that they didn’t call it Grease! That was a stroke of genius right there. Somebody must have thought, If we’re gonna underplay one thing and one thing only, let’s have it be the title. Leave off the *&^# exclamation point why don’t ya?”

Second off: Here’s the plot of Grease in seven frames.

Sandy…

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Danny…

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Sandy and Danny…

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I was a jerk…will you go with me?

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…No, but, will you go with me?

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And if you do, can we live happily ever after?

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Yes…Yes we can!…In our flying car.

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That’s a classic structure folks. Shakespeare didn’t do better with Romeo and Juliet...or even A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

There are, admittedly, several subplots, all done in equally primary colors–the drag race, the pregnancy that turns out to be a false alarm, the dropout who goes back to school, and so on and so forth. Not a spot of nuance anywhere, or a dropped stitch…or a missed opportunity to mock something or other that probably meant a lot to somebody once upon a time. Add in that the leads were 24-year-old John Travolta and 29-year-old Olivia Newton-John, backed up by 28-year-old Jeff Conaway and 24-year-old Stockard Channing, all playing high school seniors, and the result should have been as slick and empty as the title (! or no !), and as sterile as the show’s Broadway-Does-Rock-N-Roll roots.

But it’s not. It’s way too goofy for any of that and just because everybody’s a little long in the tooth for their parts doesn’t mean they’re not perfect. Complaining that they’re a little too perfect–as in so perfect no mere Broadway casting call could have matched them in a thousand years–misses the point. If these characters had been played as anybody identifiably human the whole thing would would have gone poof, probably accompanied by a socially impolite noise that would have ripped every Dolby speaker in America apart along about the summer of ’78.

Instead it went over like gangbusters.

I confess I missed it. The phenomenon, I mean. I saw the movie in the theater that very summer. In high school, I used to take my mom to afternoon movies because she couldn’t drive and my dad didn’t like going to movies (especially the part where you had to pay to get in). She loved Grease, thought it was a hoot. I was an English major in training, possessed of superior taste, so I admitted I liked it okay (which I did), but I didn’t see what the big deal was.

Twenty years later, when the anniversary edition was released to theaters, I went to see it again, mostly out of affection for the memory of one of her last uncomplicated happy experiences and, even in an empty theater, with nobody to share the laughter, I found myself enjoying it immensely. And the main reason was that I finally got it. When I saw it in ’78, I didn’t know Edd “Kookie” Burns from Adam or Eve Arden from the original Eve. I had heard Sid Caesar’s name and Frankie Avalon’s, too, but I didn’t know either of them by sight. I didn’t get half the in-jokes or verbal puns. With all that I was missing, I’m not even sure I got the truly perfect Dinah Manoff’s Marty being asked her last name by Byrnes’ on-the-make dee-jay, and saying, “Maraschino…You know. Like in cherry?”

It turned out my lack of common culture knowledge–subsequently filled in by my later obsessions–had cost me a few dozen laughs. By 1998, time had made up the difference and a few dozen laughs (most of which still make me laugh again every time I watch it now, whether because anything is actually funny or because I feel a little guilty for not sharing the laughs with mom while she was still here or just because looking back on my ignorance is liable to make me shake my head a little in wonder, I don’t know) are the difference between not knowing what the big deal was and understanding it perfectly.

So while I recognize every possible objection my taste-filter should have to something that can so easily pass for “camp” (a concept I normally find contemptible), I still have to admit that, when it’s time to watch Grease, I always get a slightly giddy, light-headed feeling, not unlike the once-a-year ritual where I sink into happy oblivion and watch Abba videos for half-a-day. It’s a feeling of glad anticipation, and specifically the knowledge that my jaded soul will be skipping by the time the last two numbers play…And the wait’s always worth it…

…Oh, forgot. It’s a triple high when you add the closing theme. It was by Frankie Valli. Him I knew. Even in ’78.

Edd Byrnes or Frankie Avalon, he was not.

WHAT IMPRESSED ME THIS WEEK (End of Empire and, As It Happens, Everything Else…Dame Helen Presiding)

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[NOTE: This post contains spoilers for Prime Suspect, Season 7)

A few years back, I saw Christopher Hitchens and Salman Rushdie having some sort of sit-down chat on C-Span and, among various other topics, they fell to discussing British vs. American politics. One thing that struck them in particular was the phony lip-service American politicians are forced to pay to religious belief.

In England, they both agreed, such cow-towing never even crosses any politician’s mind.

I don’t recall either man mentioning why he nonetheless so much preferred living in America, but I do remember thinking they needn’t worry.

Being no fan of phony lip-service (to religion or anything else), I’ll still bet that when America is sufficiently like their England, there won’t be an America.

And there won’t be an England.

If a British television series like Prime Suspect was all anyone knew of England (and bear in mind that, for many of us, it is precisely that), then it would be logical to conclude that England, as either a meaningful historical identity or a sustainable political-economy, has already vanished.

The show ran in seven different, not-always-consecutive, seasons between 1991 and 2006. It was groundbreaking in all kinds of ways with its hyper-emphasis on forensics, emphasis on teamwork as opposed to the brilliance of a single detective, realistically gruesome corpses, the persistent elongation of the good old-fashioned mono-syllabic word “shit” into anywhere from and two to five syllables (though in one instance, I heard a s-s-s-s-s-s-hit, which I take to be seven), and, of course, an admirable but genuinely prickly female detective at the center.

Except for a handful of episodes, I didn’t see the show when it aired. By the time I became aware of it in the mid-nineties, the I’ll-wait-for-it-on-video mode was already prevailing at my house. When I first gathered up the whole series and watched it several years ago I thought it was a genuinely great series (“great” being an honorific I rarely find applicable to any TV series as a whole, though I frequently find individual aspects I like), but I didn’t think much about its possible socio-political import beyond the obvious (but, alas, necessary) feminist point that “women could do the job as good as men.”

Based on the DVD commentary and what I’ve been able to find on-line, I’m not sure the makers thought much beyond that either. And, of course, I have no idea what England was/is really like, circa 1991, 2006, or today. But I do know what the collapse of culture and politics in America feels like and, what with so many of their intellectuals preferring it here (a reverse of the old days when, if we produced a Henry James, he was likely to head straight over there and stay for a lifetime), I assume England really might be in worse shape than we are.

Certainly Helen Mirren’s DCI Jane Tennison begins the series in the familiar position (amidst all the then unfamiliar “realities” I mentioned above) of defending civilization from the monsters. And certainly there are monsters throughout the fifteen-year-run.

But, perhaps because, for entirely whimsical reasons, I watched seasons six through one in reverse order this time around, saving seven for the last, I was struck by England’s absence.

The upper classes with whom we Americans, at least, associate royalty and posh affluence (anything from Buckingham Palace to Downton Abbey), is barely glimpsed. But the middle class (presumably filled with all those Austen and Dickens and LeCarre readers) is even less in evidence. If not for occasional forays into Tennison’s private life it would be completely missing.

Essentially, then, and more so as the series progresses, Jane Tennison is defending an England no longer worth defending. The world of the series looks, sounds and most significantly, feels, like a police state which is kept from complete savagery only by the still barely perceptible presence of a liberal, common law, tradition.

It’s an England overrun by slums at the low end, and deep-set corruption at the high end. Nothing feels permanent, or even multi-generational. And by nothing, I mean nothing–not just buildings or roads or hairstyles or belief systems are decaying or putting up false fronts, but order itself.

What we have is a fifteen-year run through a nation that will produce no more glory. No more Shakespeares or MIltons. No Austens or Brontes. No Gladstones or Churchills. No Beatles or Stones.

Hell, no Clash or Sex Pistols.

Even they had to have something more than a black hole to rail against.

But, perhaps more to the point, this is an England that will produce no more Jane Tennisons.

In case anyone had kept such faith as the show permits (that is, in case anyone might assume my reading is, as the Brits say, daft), the final season gives us a younger version of Tennison herself. We don’t need to guess at this. She says as much herself and more than once.

It’s so much a younger version of herself (presented by the fresh-faced presence of Laura Greenwood), that, for once, and on the verge of her own retirement, she’s blinded to the sort of reality that she’s made a career of shoving in other people’s faces.

They’re bound together by intelligence, slash-n-bob haircuts, black coats worn as protection against the ever falling rain, a love of art, a deep-seated rebellious streak.

Somebody’s record collection.

Whether that last is Tennison’s, her dying father’s or some mixture of both is unclear, but it yields, for a start, Mirren’s lonely Jane dancing to Dusty Springfield’s “Stay Awhile” and, for a finish, a matched, bracketing sequence of Greenwood’s lonely Penny dancing to something else but clearly lost in the same past.

Of course, it’s really just Tennison’s past, a remnant of the middle class/middlebrow world her middle class/middlebrow father provided for her to rebel against, and perhaps flee from, by becoming the top-flight detective she wanted for herself instead of the artist her father, who we know from an earlier season was a liberator of Nazi death camps, wanted for her.

Penny’s a product of the new middle class. Her dad’s a statutory rapist who slept with one of her friends. By the time she’s dancing to the old records in Tennison’s dad’s house, she’s already a murderess and working up to a second try. She’s completely lost and, in the environment the series has built, not just in the final season (when Tennison is ravaged by alcoholism and so separated from any semblance of a normal life that she can’t even be in the same room with her surviving relatives without making an ass of herself, the last vestiges of middle class civility having been erased by her own choices), but in the entire corrosive atmosphere built up over a decade and a half, that primitivism is getting back its own and fresh-faced murder feels at least as natural as anything else.

This is an England where the air is permanently poisoned. And, long before the “reveal,” you can see and feel the inevitability of it all.

You don’t need plot-points or exegesis or the best role the actress of the age–definer of the wild child, the gangster’s moll, Morgana Le Fay, the first Elizabeth, the second Elizabeth–is ever likely to have, to know there’s no more England.

You just need to look, long before the aforementioned reveal, at the body language of the girl who will never have anything to defend.

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Yes, by all means. Let’s be more like England.