Probably the two greatest advances in western culture in my lifetime have been the Sopranos-style epic serial drama and the advent of TV on demand and/or the DVD box set.
I don’t think I’m saying anything weird or contentious — or indeed original — here. For example, I’m writing these words at the end of a week with the Fawn in the Canaries, a holiday which I just know wouldn’t have been half as pleasurable if we hadn’t been able to retire to our room every evening after another hard day’s beach work to the solace of two more episodes of the Nordic miseryfest that is The Bridge.
And just before we left home we also caught up on a series I know I really ought, as a TV critic, to have raved about when it came out but didn’t because I’m crap that way: Broadchurch.
Broadchurch — series one, at least — really was as good as everyone says it was. That’s why, for the benefit of those of you who still haven’t seen it (as you totally must), I’m going to be careful in this review not to give away any plot spoilers. I know how annoying it would be if I did because that’s what someone did to me when I was out for a ride the other day.
We were sitting on our horses, outside the stables, making small talk as you do, while waiting for everyone to mount up. And I said, ‘God I’m loving Broadchurch. I’m just catching up with the first series.’ And the person to whom I addressed my remark said, ‘Oh yes. It was the BLANKETY BLANK who did it, wasn’t it?’
And I said, ‘Oh. My. God. You’ve just totally ruined the ending for me.’
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