A while ago I wrote about how much I love the detective
novels of Reginald Hill. about the Yorkshire police superintendent Andy
Dalziel and his sidekick Peter Pascoe. I also had a few things to say about the
BBC
series based on those books.
At the time of writing, I hadn’t yet seen Season 8 of
the Dalziel & Pascoe series. Well, last week I finally got hold of it and watched the first
episode. And…
I’m really, really sorry about that.
Because that sucker would have to ride an elevator up six
floors just to hit dreadful. I mean it was God-awful in a way that makes
God-awfulness ashamed of itself.
Okay, part of it was guest star David Soul—looking like
he’s been rode hard and put away wet, and sounding as though he was afraid he
was about to spit out his dentures at any moment. Hutch—call Huggy Bear! ASAP!
But it was way more than that. Colin Buchanan’s Pascoe
has had that poker in his butt, I don’t know, frozen. Like his face. He really
needs to get rid of that sea urchin in his mouth.
And Warren Clarke. Oh, dear—I just cringe for him. A word
sometimes used to describe Hitler’s frenzies, “Teppichfresser” (“carpet chewer”), came to mind. And it’s a pity to
have to apply it to a professional like Clarke, but it is what it is.
Also I’m thinking that whoever wrote that dog is in possession
of compromising photographs of everyone involved in the production, from the
head of BBC on down to the propmaster. Because that’s the only way it could
have got backing to actually film that dreck.
Sorry—I shouldn’t refer to it as a dog. Dogs would have
implied a better, more coherent job of building character and plot.
I watched the show to the dire end, then ejected the DVD,
replaced it in the little case and returned it to the Santa Clara County
Library the next morning. (I would have torched it, except then I’d have had to
pay the library for it.) I did not bother with the rest of the season.
And I think I may need to burn some sage around the house
to cast out the bad, bad juju.
Gack!
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