HUSH MY MOUTH!
First off, apologies for my spelling malfunction yesterday when referring to Ben Whishaw – what was I thinking?! Clearly, not thinking at all.
Moving swiftly on, you may remember I gabbed on about the pure brilliance of London Spy and stand by my comments about superb acting and Ben Whishaw’s outstanding performance. Masterful storytelling was a hallmark of the series until midway through the finale in which I skidded to a dirty great halt.
It’s common knowledge that, if the big climactic scene, the one the audience has waited hours for doesn’t deliver, the preceding story is screwed. I wouldn’t go this far because it would be grossly unfair. There were plenty of big revelations to sustain attention, and the way in which Danny’s every effort to reveal the truth was thwarted with chilling ease ratcheted tension to fever pitch, but the fact that, in the final analysis, there were more questions than answers says a lot.
Who were all those people holed up in Alex’s attic with listening devices and cameras? I assumed that they were intelligence officers carrying out a dastardly form of torture that would give the most deranged terrorist a run for his or her money. (As a claustrophobe, there was one point when I almost ran out of the room screaming). Why, instead, wasn’t Alex offered a deal from the lonely bowels of an interrogation room in SIS HQ? If he refused, why wasn’t he let go and left to the tender mercies of a ‘Wet’ team? Why was Charlotte Rampling, Alex’s alleged mother, dragged in to reason with Alex in his dying moments when the intelligence service thought so little of her? Why on earth did she throw her hand in with Danny in a doomed endeavour in the final seconds of the episode when previously she had so stoutly defended her position?
If I were Tom Rob Smith, I’d be tempted to respond with the ultimate put-down: his novels have sold in millions and been made into a film. Precisely, but that’s why I expected so much more.