Redcap – It’s What Comes After

Sergeant Mann’s investigation into a soldier who went AWOL is an open and shut case. But it indirectly leads onto a more puzzling affair – why has a previously upstanding officer, Captain Lynne (Keith Barron), suddenly started to act in a very erratic manner? Maybe it’s connected to his wife’s recent breakdown ….

Airing between 1964 and 1966, Redcap offered John Thaw his first starring role. Sergeant Mann, a member of the army investigative unit, has free reign to travel the globe, unearthing crime, corruption and disorderly conduct wherever British soldiers might be stationed. This gives Mann the air of a permanent outsider who’s always faced with an uphill battle to bring any perpetrators to justice. In retrospect, this sort of character fits Thaw like a glove – it’s easy to see echoes of Jack Regan in Mann (both, at times, are no respecter of authority).

Although Mann visited a fair few countries, the series never left the UK (and indeed rarely ventured outside of the studio). Some might view this as a weakness but if you love 1960’s studio-based VT drama, then Redcap will be just your cup of tea.

There was plenty of quality on the technical side – it was produced by John Bryce (who helmed The Avengers during 1963/64) and script-edited by Ian Kennedy-Martin (later to write Reganthe Armchair Cinema pilot which spawned The Sweeney). Plenty of familiar names pop up on the writing front such as William Emms on this opening episode.

The mystery as to why Lynne has gone to pieces is eventually revealed – his wife (played by Miranda Connell) was raped after leaving a mess party. With the crime having taken place inside the army compound, this makes it more than likely that a soldier was responsible. But even after this revelation there’s still an air of mystery – why is Lynne so reluctant to admit what happened?

Barron plays Lynne as an upper-crust type and manages to nicely suggest the conflict and turmoil that lies behind his apparent passivity.  He eventually does come clean, and to Lynne’s credit he wasn’t acting purely out of self-interest (although he does admit that public knowledge about his wife’s rape would damage both his career and reputation).

Emms’ script briefly attempts to tease out the puzzle concerning the guilty party by offering us several possibilities. But since we only focus on one – Private Bolt (Kenneth Colley) – this mystery soon dissipates.  There are still several different ways the story might play out though – Bolt is guilty and confesses, Bolt is guilty but doesn’t confess, Bolt is innocent.

In the end, everything is wrapped up slightly too neatly. Mann has very little evidence, but contrives a situation where Bolt and Lynne are left alone. Lynne, having already been told by Mann that Bolt is the most likely suspect, snaps and viciously beats Bolt up. And having been pulped by Lynne, Bolt then helpfully confesses his crime to Mann.

Hmm, given this confession was extracted under duress it’s possible that it might not stand up in court. Mind you, it’s the kind of stroke you could imagine Jack Regan pulling.  Indeed, Thaw does glower throughout with the same sort of barely supressed fury that he’d later display in The Sweeney, so maybe even this early on Kennedy-Martin was taking notes ….

As with each episode, It’s What Comes After is immaculately cast. Keith Barron is good value as Lynne, whilst Colley slips in enough off-kilter gestures to suggest that Bolt is indeed the man we’re looking for.  Derek Newark, as the long-suffering Mess Sergeant (who has to deal with the insubordinate Bolt on a daily basis) also catches the eye.

It may not impress as a great example of detective work, but It’s What Comes After is certainly a strong opening episode.

Inspector Morse – The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn

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The first few minutes of The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn give us something of a guest star overload.  Michael Gough, Barbara Flynn, Clive Swift, Roger Lloyd-Pack, Frederick Treves and Elspet Gray all appear – which bodes well for the remainder of the episode.

But the star of the opening scene is the eponymous Nicholas Quinn (Phil Nice).  Quinn is a relatively new member of the Overseas Examination Board, an Oxford syndicate dedicated to producing quality examinations for overseas students.  He, along with the other members of the Board, are attending a sedate party organised by their boss, Dr Bartlett (Clive Swift).  There’s a disorientating feel about this scene – Quinn is deaf and the audience is allowed to hear only what he can hear.  This is muffled and indistinct (and at times completely inaudible).  What Quinn can (or can’t) hear will become important later on, but for now he’s convinced that Bartlett is selling the Examination Board’s secrets – and tells Philip Ogleby (Michael Gough) so.

Shortly afterwards Quinn is found dead – it looks like suicide, but Morse is convinced it’s murder.  There’s no shortage of suspects as virtually every member of the Board is seen to behave in a suspicious manner.  Donald Martin (Roger Lloyd-Pack) and Monica Height (Barbara Flynn) are conducting an affair and decided to lie about their movements on the day that Quinn was last seen.  Both Ogleby and Roope (Anthony Smee) are interested in the contents of Dr Barlett’s office (whilst Bartlett’s not there, naturally) and we’ve already heard that Dr Bartlett has been accused of corruption.

Barbara Flynn gives a memorable performance as Monica Height.  She’s a character who’s put through the emotional wringer and seems to make something of a connection with Morse.  Michael Gough has a smaller role, but does share a key scene with Thaw.  Morse is delighted to learn that Ogleby sets crossword puzzles and admits that he’s been wrestling with his puzzles for years.  Roger Lloyd-Pack is somewhat off-key as Martin – this might have been as scripted, or simply Lloyd-Pack’s acting choice (he did make something of a habit of playing people who were somewhat disconnected from reality).

The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn offers more opportunity to see Morse’s unique brand of detective work in action.  He admits that he makes intuitive leaps which sometimes prove to be incorrect, or as Morse memorably puts it.  “The trouble with my method Lewis is that its inspirational and as a result I sometimes, sometimes, get things arse about face.”  It’s only a chance remark that puts him on the right track (and by then he’s already arrested the wrong man).  The “fake” ending had long been a popular staple of detective fiction and it’s used effectively here.  Just when you think the story’s over, a last minute revelation forces us to reassess everything we’ve learnt to date.

There’s a few nice moments of humour.  Morse and the murderer have something of a battle towards the end of the episode.  Lewis discovers the pair of them locked in combat and coolly enquires if Morse needs any help!  Dr Bartlett’s interest in visiting the cinema to see Last Tango in Paris becomes something of a plot-point (with the tone of the conversations suggesting that the only reason anybody would see a film like that would be for the sex scenes).  Morse and Lewis are offered free tickets, but Morse declines – declaring that Lewis is too young.  Later Morse changes his mind and is furious to find that the film has now changed – it’s 101 Dalmatians.  Lewis is delighted and sets off home to fetch the wife and kids, leaving Morse to walk off to the pub alone.

A typically convoluted Dexter plot, The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn does suffer from having too many suspects – and the fact they all have similar possible motives doesn’t help.  But the exemplary guest cast is more than adequate compensation for the sometimes confusing plotting.

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Inspector Morse – The Dead of Jericho

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When Inspector Morse debuted in 1987 it was seen as something of a risky venture.  The most common format for drama was the hour long slot, but every episode of Morse ran for two hours (or approximately 105 minutes once the adverts were removed).  It was generally believed that holding an audience’s attention over two hours would be a difficult task – especially with a series like Morse, which eschewed action to concentrate on intricate mysteries with, at times, an unashamed elitist air.  But the series’ many strengths – the Thaw/Whately partnership, the Oxford settings, first-rate guest casts, etc – all helped to make Morse an instant success and many other series would copy the two hour format.  Some, like the revived Van Der Valk, didn’t endure but others (A Touch of Frost, Midsummer Murders) clearly benefited from Morse’s lead.

Inspector Morse made his debut in the novel Last Bus to Woodstock, written by Colin Dexter, which was published in 1975.  Dexter would pen another twelve Morse novels between 1976 and 1999.  When the television series went into production they had seven novels to chose from and elected to launch with Dexter’s fifth, The Dead of Jericho, published in 1981.

It’s easy to understand one of the reasons why Jericho was chosen  – the personal angle helps to flesh out Morse’s character straightaway.  Anne Staveley (Gemma Jones) and Morse belong to the same choir and a friendship between them blossoms.  It becomes clear very quickly that Morse is hopeful this will lead a deeper relationship, but Anne (whilst she doesn’t explain why) gently tells him that it can’t happen.  “It’s complicated” she says.  Shortly after, Anne is found dead at her house in Jericho, a suburb of Oxford.  It appears to be suicide, but Morse isn’t convinced.

John Thaw had been a television regular since the mid sixties.  His first starring role, Redcap (1964 – 1966) had seen him play a military policeman, Sergeant John Mann, whilst The Sweeney (1975 – 1978) had been his most high profile role prior to Morse.  Detective Inspector Jack Regan was a rough, tough Flying Squad officer and it had taken Thaw a while to dissociate himself from the part.  So the thought of playing another copper might have palled, although it quickly became clear that Morse was no Regan.

This is amusingly demonstrated in the opening scene as we see Morse take part in a raid on a car chopshop.  There’s fisticuffs and the sort of action that wouldn’t have seemed out of place in The Sweeney (although it’s very atypical in Morse).  But director Alastair Reid chooses to intercut this with choir practice scenes – and the bizarre juxtaposition (together with the sweet choral soundtrack) is an odd, but effective, choice.

Thaw was only forty-four when The Dead of Jericho was shot, but he looked at least a decade older.  Thaw’s Morse is instantly a more vulnerable character than the literary Morse – his relationship with Anne is a good example of this, as he pursues her with an almost pathetic eagerness.  And when he makes Lewis’ acquiescence later in the story he’s keen at every opportunity to invite him for a beer.  Is this because he wants to discuss the case or is Morse simply a very lonely man?

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Reid’s directorial style very much favours close ups – it’s an effective way of establishing a sense of claustrophobia and tension – although he does occasionally pull the camera back.  The most striking example of this comes after Morse and Anne leave the pub, early in the story.  As Morse walks Anne home, Reid takes every opportunity to showcase Oxford’s impressive architecture (in a way that will become a signature hallmark of the series).

Gemma Jones is appealingly vulnerable as Anne, whilst Spencer Leigh has just the right amount of obnoxiousness as Ned Murdoch, a student who’s latched onto Anne as something of a surrogate mother.  Patrick Troughton, in one of his last roles, is delightfully seedy as Anne’s next door neighbour – an odd job man who gets his kicks as a peeping-tom whilst James Laurenson is perfect casting as Tony Richards.  Richards was Anne’s former employer and all the evidence points to the fact that he and Anne had enjoyed a lengthy affair – something confirmed by Richards’ disgruntled wife Adele (Annie Lambert).  Laurenson is one of those actors whose face is instantly recognisable, even if his name is less so, and it’s nice to know that he’s still going strong today.

If the television Morse differed somewhat from his literary counterpart then the same certainly goes for Lewis.  Dexter’s Lewis was a contemporary of Morse and tended to always be several steps behind.  By casting a younger actor, Kevin Whately, the whole dynamic changes (for the better it must be said).  Indeed, The Dead of Jericho doesn’t really start to really work until Morse and Lewis are teamed up.  To begin with Lewis is partnered with the acerbic Chief Inspector Bell (Norman Jones).  Bell, in charge of the case, distrusts Morse, because he’s clever, but Lewis has a more open mind.  It does appear that Morse and Lewis have never met face to face before – which makes more sense in the book as it’s explained that Bell works at another station.

That Morse sees himself as a free-wheeling maverick is made obvious when he fails to tell Bell that he knew Anne, or that he visited her house on the afternoon she died.  His disregard for the law can also be seen when he decides to clandestinely visit her house in the dead of night to search for clues.  Lewis, lying in wait, nabs the villainous-looking character in a back leather jacket climbing over the wall, only to be shocked when it turns out to be Morse!  It’s a nice comic moment, although it only reinforces that Morse shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the case.  But when Bell is promoted, Chief Superintendent Strange (the always wonderful James Grout) does indeed give Morse the case (and gives him Lewis as well).

Anthony Minghella’s adaptation changes most of the names as well as removing a few characters (or changing them somewhat).  Whether this helps to make the screenplay better of worse than the novel is open to debate, but it’s undeniable that around the seventy minute mark it’s impossible not to find your attention drifting.  This would always be a problem with the two hour format (more so once the series had exhausted Dexter’s novels) but it’s worth sticking with it until the end.

So whilst it’s not the most involving of whodunnits, Thaw and Whately hit the ground running and this ensured that Inspector Morse had a solid future.

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The Rivals of Shelock Holmes – The Sensible Action of Lieutenant Holst

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John Thaw as Lieutenant Holst in The Sensible Action of Lieutenant Holst by Palle Rosenkrantz
Adapted by Michael Meyer. Directed by Jonathan Alwyn

Copenhagen, 1905.  A Russian countess, Maria Wolkinski (Catherine Schell), claims that her brother-in-law has travelled to Copenhagen to kill her.  Dimitri Wolkinski (Philip Madoc) is a hunted man in Russia, due to his revolutionary views (which were shared by his late brother, Maria’s husband).

Maria is placed in the care of Lt Holst (John Thaw) and after he leaves her with his wife Ulla (Virgninia Stride) he interviews Dimitri.  But although Maria seemed convincing, so does Dimitri (who tells Holst that his sister-in-law is hysterical).  Who is telling the truth and who is lying?  And will the mild-mannered Holst be able to negotiate the tricky tangle of political intrigue without losing his job?

Baron Palle Adam Vilhelm Rosenkrantz was a Danish writer who wrote several crime stories.  The majority of his works don’t appear to have been translated into English and there doesn’t appear to be an online version of this story.

John Thaw would spend a large part of his career playing policeman, although his two most famous roles (Jack Regan and Morse) were still in the future when this was made.  At first glance, Holst seems to be a world away from the rough-and-tumble Regan – he has a settled home-life and gives every impression of being someone who doesn’t plan to rock the boat.  He reminds his wife that those who do tend to find their careers cut short (something he claims he has no desire to do).

But as the case wears on he finds himself coming under great pressure from various quarters.  After listening to Maria’s story, his wife is convinced that she’s telling the truth and angrily wonders why Holst doesn’t either arrest or kill Dimitri.  Holst replies that Dimitri hasn’t committed any crime and therefore there’s nothing he can do.

When Dimitri is later in Holst’s custody (arrested on a technicality) the Russian embassy make it plain they want him back (Dimitri has told them that if he returns to Russia he’ll be executed).  Holst refuses to let a representative from the embassy visit Dimitri in his cell since he’s made it clear that he doesn’t want any visitors and Holst respects his wishes.

This brings him into direct conflict with his superior who tells him that “in this job one has to be a diplomat, not a saint.”  Dimitri’s eventual fate doesn’t come as a surprise and nor does Holst’s reaction – although it’s an excellent scene for John Thaw.  One of the joys of The Sensible Action of Lieutenant Holst is watching Thaw’s performance over the course of the episode – from the conformist dutiful officer he is at the start, to the wiser and cynical individual he becomes by the end.

Philip Madoc and Catherine Schell both help to enhance this production.  Madoc invests Dimitri with the sort of brooding presence he always did so well and Schell is also in her element – Maria is an icy, remote figure who may, or may not, be in fear of her life, a role Schell plays to perfection.

In the end, the question of whether Dimitri did plan to kill Maria is never resolved for certain.  If it was true there would appear to have been just case – Dimitri claimed she was a Tsarist agent responsible for many deaths (including, presumably her own husband).  Holst challenges her about this at the end and whilst she doesn’t confirm it, her silence implies that it’s true.

Whilst Ulla’s sympathies remain with the countess, Holst isn’t so sure.  It’s a suitably intriguing point to close on as Thaw is once again able to give us an insight into the conflicted psyche of Holst.  Dimitri might have been an anarchist but Holst admits that if he had to choose, he’s not sure which side he’d be on.

With strong performances from Thaw, Madoc and Schell, this is one of the most dramatically satisfying episodes from series two.  It’s low on crime and mystery as it’s much more of a character piece.  And whilst The Rivals was never a series – thanks to being mostly studio-bound – that had a great deal of directorial flair, there was one moment that did make me smile.  After the credits we see a picture of Copenhagen, complete with a caption.  A few seconds later the camera pans out to reveal that this was merely a postcard in the hotel lobby.  Considering that similar pictures have been used, with no such irony, in previous episodes this is a sly wink to the series’ low-budget!