Death in Paradise (BBC1) | iPlayer
The Slap (BBC4) | iPlayer
Frozen Planet (BBC1) | iPlayer
Spooks (BBC1) | iPlayer
I'm as partial to a half-decent, lightweight whodunnit on a drowsy Sunday evening as anyone, so it was odd to find myself watching one on a Tuesday. In every other way, this first episode of new BBC1 series Death in Paradise, with its exotic island setting, wealthy suspects, classic "locked room mystery" (a gunshot, a broken vase, a body, a figure in the bushes) and opulent home thronging with guests, seemed determined to be unsurprising. True, there was no Poirot passing through on a Caribbean cruise, though it would have been up his street – I mean, why would the island's happy-go-lucky British police chief choose to shoot himself in someone else's house in a room that only locks from the inside, if not to attract the attention of Belgium's finest?
The policeman who did arrive, though, was no less instantly recognisable: here was gimmick detective, flown reluctantly in from rainy Croydon with the express purpose of being pathologically at odds with a new environment. Ben Miller (best known for his excellent sketch show with Alexander Armstrong) was convincing as buttoned-up, briefcase-carrying DI Richard Poole, responding to his first glimpse of the blazing sun with a murmured "Christ…", thereafter to be seen hunched in his dark suit, tie and polished shoes against a sea of discomforts (sand with everything, lizards, goats, boats, a tree growing through the beach shack he had to call home). Needless to say, the airline had lost his luggage.
Gentle fun was sparked from cultural stereotypes being rubbed together – procedure-stickling Englishness versus bemused local attitudes to filing ("He had that whole alphabetical thing going on!") – as Poole fruitlessly applied his briskness to the sleepiness of things, attended in his grumblings by the patient but knowing young local sergeant, Lily (Lenora Crichlow). "It's a mystery how we get out of bed in the morning," she said drily.
Poole worried at the mysteries before him, but worried too about who was putting the bins out back at home (it was necessary for us to know there was no Mrs Poole, though we might have guessed). He bumbled, he puzzled at a second murder, he slithered on a red herring, but in the end was required to show his genius, explaining the seemingly impossible in the time-honoured final five minutes to the usual select audience of interested parties.
I was sorry to learn that lovely Lily was the culprit, revealed in a pleasing coup de théâtre that involved Poole calling the last number on the victim's phone (and who could fail to smile when Lily's ringtone suddenly started up in her pocket with the faint but unmistakable rhythms of "I Shot the Sheriff"? Very droll). It means she won't be back this week, though DI Poole will, the script having invested too much of the hour having him looking forward to getting home to do anything now but hand him back his errant luggage, along with orders from his bosses to stay put and suffer. It was an enjoyable opener, with enough crispness and wit in the writing and storytelling, but could DI Poole be loved for his uptight paperclip-counting in the way Columbo was for crumpled raincoats or Morse his misanthropy? That seems less plausible.
I would have liked to have seen (or, I suppose, heard) a bit more fanfare for The Slap, a mechanistic but involving ensemble drama adapted in eight parts from Christos Tsiolkas's bestselling novel (I assume it earned a late-evening BBC4 certificate on account of its terrifying Australian accents, though there was a vigorous masturbation scene, come to think of it). It opened with handsome Hector (happily married, though also slightly depressed, with his mixed-race kids and a nice house pulsating with Louis Armstrong) about to hit 40 and agonising not quite enough over the possibility of celebrating his midlife crisis with the toothsome young babysitter who has made a pass at him in the car. Should he invite her to the big birthday barbecue his beautiful wife, Aisha (Sophie Okonedo), has spent all week organising for him? What could go wrong?
What went wrong was everybody else turning up, starting with Hector's suffocating immigrant parents – Greeks bearing gifts in the shape of an unwanted trip back to the old country to visit relatives, which was bad enough, but what about the romantic break in Bali that Aisha had planned? We were soon in for some Athenian histrionics ("We give her a gift – it's like we stuck a knife in her heart!"), with poor Hector trying to pacify both wife and mother as well as keep an eye on the babysitter, who had inconsiderately arrived with a boy her own age. Beers were downed, the kids played up (in particular little Hugo, who threw a tantrum every time anyone tried to stop him trashing the house), friction built between Hugo's dad, Gary (a labourer and failing artist), and macho cousin Harry, and Aisha was soon hissing at Hector for the usual husbandly shortcomings ("Can you please just do this one thing?"). Who could blame the poor man for popping upstairs for a line of coke, supplied by saucy minx Anouk, a 40-ish TV writer with a young male star in tow? Hector was thus emboldened, but had barely surreptitiously touched knees with the babysitter when the slap came. By now, just about everyone deserved one, but it was Hugo what got it – and who hadn't had enough of the little horror, not to mention the mimsy, free-spirited parenting of Gary and his indulgent wife, Rosie (still breastfeeding Hugo – yes, a boy old enough to swing a cricket bat at someone). Fight! Uproar!
The slap had the immediate effect of bringing Hector to his senses (we could have done without the voiceover explaining this) and he and the missus ended the evening laughing it off. But of course it's too late for that. The battle – between friends, family, cultures – is on. This is a watcher.
As expected, there were things to shake your head at in the superb Frozen Planet, not least the sight of David Attenborough – a man two years older than Bruce Forsyth – stranded on top of a bloody great mountain. The camera pulled away into the white sky until he was less than a speck. How were they going to get him down again?
We didn't find out, but he did live to show us a polar bear scenting out a mate, tracking her and then doing the necessary when she was in the mood, which wasn't as often as you might think for animals that wander around aimlessly for weeks without seeing a soul. "Female polar bears are high-maintenance," said Attenborough, as if from personal experience. She eventually went off to have cubs while the male, bloodied and knackered from protecting her honour from others, went off to die before the ice melted under his feet. Other highlights? A pack of wolves chasing a herd of bison across the snow; an owl floating towards the camera in a dark forest. Will we ever be better served than this for our fix of unspoilt wildernesses?
It was goodbye to Spooks, which ended after 10 series of quality violence, heroism and double-dealing. It was a mesmerising finale. I was just sorry Ruth had to be stabbed to death by the Russian. Obviously, no one expected a Disney ending but I can't have been the only fool wanting one.
