Under the skin of television

Press, 9 October 1987, Page 11

Under the skin of television

Each year, there is one series that uplifts the , spirit and makes It clear what a marvellous medium television is when used as it should be. In 1987 it has been a long wait, but, judging from the first episode of “The Singing Detective,” well worth it Dennis Potter has proved his talent many times, but never as convincingly as with this. "Pennies from Heaven”, began Potter’s prominence and also was the first reflection of his fascination with old songs. There is nothing so effective for achieving mood — a few bars of some long-unthought-of melody can instantly evoke time, place and atmosphere, like the whiff of a halfforgotten scent But although very good, there was something slightly tainted about “Pennies

from Heaven," a tacit nastiness that hung around it Not so with “The Singing Detective.” One of the great things about the flexibility of television is that it can surprise. To begin to watch a new drama series and find that it features a man lying in hospital covered in psoriasis, of grotesque and horrifying proportions, surprised. (Of course, the first song was

"I’ve got you under my skin” — Potter pulls no punches.) The make-up is amazing, but this was just the beginning. Michael Gambon superbly acts the part of Philip Marlow (without •the e), ex-writer of detective stories, stuck to a hospital bed, wearing a nappy, every slight movement painful, and having to be greased each day. At times the pain, or the Ignominy, of the sheer illconceived parent-like condescension of the hospital staff becomes too much to bear and he slips into the world of "The Singing De-

tective,” one of his early novels. The way in which the action slips from the grim black humour of the hospital ward to the sleazy clubs and mean London streets of Marlow's hero is brilliant, stretching the resources both of television and the writer. Marlow's bodily state prompts hallucinations and they link to his detective fantasies via songs as the lives of Marlow and his hero merge and meld. It is not easy to deci'de which scenes are the more enjoyable, the reality or the fantasy. The hospital sequences are deeply satisfying if you happen to be the sort of person who cannot bear to be spoken down to. Although pain-racked and helpless, Marlow gives back far more than he gets, taking apart everyone who condescends to

him, from consultant to staff nurse. The high spot of the first episode was a scene which began with the consultant and his retinue marching in to “The Entrance of the Queen of Sheba.” They spoke medical gobbledegook, Marlow tried to be genuine about the horror and the pain, and, embarrassed, they reacted with talk of tranquillisers and anti-depres-

sants. It all became too much and there was the fantasy again, with the entire hospital staff singing “Dem Bones." This sequence was as good a bit of television as I have seen this year. The other few minutes which brought a squirming glow of pleasure came from Marlow trying to think of something boring as a pretty and sympathetic* nurse greased his lower body — a Ted Heath speech, the Bible, the dog in Blue Peter, and so on. But nothing worked, particularly following “I’m sorry but I’ll have to lift your penis now, to grease round it” His eyes rolled and he was off down to the club, Into his novelistic detective escape, where the nurse/greaser was singing “My Momma don’ tol’ me.”

This is such very good television, that it is difficult to know what else to say. Just watch it if you watch nothing else. If you don’t have a television, rent one for a few weeks, or go to see friends who do, on a Monday night. Marlow and his skin and his fantasies will surely prove too much for the “And how are we today?” brigade, but not without a few more surprises.