First viewed : 4 December 1987
This three part serial turned into something of an embarrassment for the BBC. It was intended to be broadcast in September but was yanked after the Hungerford massacre and put back to December where it became a feelbad drama in the run up to Christmas.
David Threlfall played Don Weaver, a Liverpudlian professional criminal living in Spain and dabbling in real estate who receives a message from his ex-father in law ( James Ellis ) that his 12 year old son has been brutally murdered. He returns to his old stamping-ground to exact violent revenge assisted by Michael Angelis as an old associate and Leslie Ash . who created some extra publicity for the series by appearing topless in a shower scene. Terence Harvey as a bent cop and Craig Charles as a gangster were also along for the rude.
The series was unremittingly grim and violent. It owed a lot to Get Carter and like Carter, Weaver was an evil thug given to bouts of hypocritical self-pity and a rapist to boot. A fair proportion of the cast ended up dead by the final reel. Liverpool was portrayed as a lawless , abandoned ghost city where anything went, the boy's murder turning out to be a senseless act of gratification by three loser junkies who had no idea who he was. There was some of that old Scouse humour which somehow made things worse. Weaver is fond of showing people a photo of his apartment block in the Med and does so to one of the murderers he's about to top saying "That's my baby" to which the doomed scally replies "I'm more of a leg man myself".
Richard Griffiths was also in it as Ellis's innocent partner in a bookshop. He functioned as a sort of one man Greek chorus giving an ironic perspective on the cycle of violence which I guess gave the writers a get-out clause in the face of the criticism the series received.
This one is ripe for a release by Simple Media or Network. Here's hoping one day.
ReplyDeleteCraig Charles also gave us the eponymous poem that was heard in the titles and appears in one of his anthologies....
It's strange the way we go through life, not daring to commit a touch,
and settle for so very little, when we've longed for so very much.
It's strange the way we think of God, as someone upstairs in the sky,
who doesn't care that in the basement, the law's an eye for an eye.
And, it's strange the way we extinguish guilt, with all the fire of our hate,
and realise who was to fault, too late.
And, it's so strange that in confusion, the hunter is the prey,
and revenge and retribution are the order of the day.
Oh God, would thy could concede and rest in Thee