‘The Bill’ a load of old cobblers

Press, 12 July 1985, Page 9

‘The Bill’ a load of old cobblers

Stop winding me up; this’ll put some lead in your pencil; you look as though you’ve lost a pound and found a penny; don’t throw a wobbly.

The like of this is intended to show that the clean-cut lads and lasses that make up “The Bill” are likeable human beings, constantly on the verge of breaking out into a song and dance routine. This is “Hill Street Blues” writ small. Even the area is called Sun Hill. It is disturbing enough when British television (even Thames) mimics American television, but it borders on the ridiculous when hand-held cameras follow young bobbies as they chase slackjawed inadequates down rather smart looking alleys. Sometimes the hand-held camera even followed them into their washrooms where they flicked water at one another.

Part of the heavy-handed, flat-footed plod of the first episode made it unmistakeably clear that we were in London. They all spat out their words, with hard consonants surroundings diphthongs of amazing length and- complexity. Occasionally, there were unsophisticated snatches of rhyming slang and what seemed like every other phrase was “on your bikes.”

Part of the laboured humanity with which “The Bill” will use its truncheons on us in the next few weeks involves the time honoured rift between the uniformed branch and the C.I.D. The wooden tops always look smart and are bubbling with high spirits. The members of the C.I.D. slump, are wearily competent and always have shirt collars unbuttoned and ties adrift.

Again, in the time honoured way, the rift goes further than this. The various sections of the C.I.D. do not get on too well as they comb their patches for a result, various firms being fingered by their creepy snouts. This gave Monday’s episode one of the most forced conversations in the history of television drama. It began: “Well Guv, my best snout’s got himself lifted.” “Too late, my son.” Then there were five minutes or so of “guvs” and

BSE

“my sons,” culiminating in a burst of “do me a favour.” The plot hinged on a probationary member of “The Bill” (a Willy rather than a Wally, perhaps) feeling a collar, but seeing his superiors allow the crim to go uncharged. Thus, he learned that police work is sometimes not as straightforward, upright, simple and honest as he had thought. This is one of the half dozen standard police procedural plots. The plot, though, was only a clapped-out vehicle for carrying the stereotypes. It was a pity, but the London bobbies were shown to be very silly. There were too many shots of them hanging onto their helmets as they ran. Even more laughable, though, they evidently have to stand to attention in the presence of their superiors, clutching their helmets under their arms, as might the headless horsemen. Even though it is a new series, “The Bill” looks as though it could be a hangover from the 25-year indulgence we have just enjoyed. Such efforts have gone into making it seem realistic that it is a huge self-con-scious strain. There are two traditions of British television cops and robbers and this belongs to the poor one. It seems as if it will be no more than a police soap opera. When one remembers that it is replacing “Minder” this takes on the proportions of a tragedy.

The final insult was that the end of the programme was even sillier than the rest of it. The credits slid up the backs of the legs of a male and a female copper as they walk their jointly flat-footed beat. In their language, it really is a load of old cobblers. These days, it should have been called “The Bill and Mary,” but there was one compelling reason for sticking to “The Bill.” The actor who plays Sergeant Cryer happens to have the largest hooter in the business.