“My name’s Ellie. I’m a detective with Wessex police ... This is Alec. He’s my colleague. We work together.” Well, that’s a bit of an understatement in the circumstances, but never mind. Here we go. Series three, the final instalment – and the last chance for a return to form after the “ill-judged second season” (TM). For Broadchurch fans, however, it’s a welcome return full stop. How I’ve missed Olivia Colman’s Dorset accent.
All the familiar Broadchurch hallmarks were back. Here come the cliffs, and the slow pan down the empty high street in half-light. Here’s someone working at their desk late at night in a seaside property, and here are Miller and Alec bickering. But there was a new tone and pace too. In terms of the narrative, it felt like a useful warning. Yes, this is Broadchurch, but it won’t be like before. Get used to it.
And it was a very promising outing – an hour’s creepy, eerie and sometimes dark-humoured viewing split into two halves, really. The first half introduced Trish Winterman (Julie Hesmondhalgh) who has “made an allegation of rape against an unknown attacker”. Our introduction to her formed part of an extraordinarily intricate documentary about police procedure, complete with awful proddings and awkward moments. This was brilliantly done.
I have no knowledge as to the accuracy of this portrayal, but it seemed not only like responsible drama but also an advert for the saintly patience of the police in the face of the world’s worst witness. The second half broadened the picture out, casting the net wide for suspects, flagging up new faces (it’s Lenny Henry!) and reminding us of the characters we already know, who are more likely than not to be implicated in this too.
Broadchurch is rarely known for its light touch, but did it really have to turn out that Beth, the mother of the murder victim in series one, is Trish’s rape crisis worker? So now the victim has Ellie’s number and Ellie’s best friend’s phone number. And of course if Beth’s family know she has a “client” locally then everyone will soon know a woman has been attacked locally. And Ellie wants Alec to believe her when she says, “It’s not Trumpton”? There’s a fine line here between weaving together previous plotlines and introducing coincidences so remarkable that the audience will not swallow them. I reserve judgment for now.
Trish’s role was brilliantly handled by Hesmondhalgh, a figure who managed to hold all our sympathy and all of our suspicion at the same time. Why can she not remember? Who is she protecting? What does her birthday friend know? Why does her birthday friend’s husband have the incriminating condom wrappers in his glove box? What happened between Saturday night and Monday night? Why would a lady have a 50th birthday party with 70 guests, 50 of whom were men?
Miller v Hardy: the score so far
Broadchurch’s appeal has always hinged on the relationship between these two. They have the greatest of respect for each other but you know he is constantly holding himself back from saying, “But your husband was the murderer in that other case”, and she from saying, “You are a neurotic nightmare and probably hiding something from me.” They are both slightly morally compromised and prone to bending the rules, while trying to persuade the other that it’s dangerous to be morally compromised and prone to bending the rules. This week Hardy took the higher ground when Miller was caught red-handed two seconds after giving out her mobile number. Then: “I was passing. Saw your light on.” “Halfway up the hill at two in the morning?” She’s getting too caught up in it too soon as usual. Keep your head, Miller.
Hardy: 2. Miller: 0.
Not the usual suspects
Broadchurch’s great strength is also its greatest weakness: it moves very slowly, painstakingly showing us a host of characters who could be witnesses, victims or perpetrators, scattering red herrings all the while. There are copious details that fall under the spotlight then turn out to be irrelevant. (See previously: the newsagent.) Here is our list of suspects so far: Trish’s estranged husband (seen only in photograph and separated from her six months ago); Trish’s birthday friend’s husband with the condoms; Lenny Henry, the unnecessarily grumpy shop boss. But at this stage, everyone remains a suspect. At one point when Trish said to DI Hardy, “Who did this to me?” I thought she said, “You did this to me,” and I shrugged to myself: “Well, this is going to be a short series.” (I misheard.)
Life lesson
Don’t wait two days to report a crime because the police will run out of evidence bags as they try to collect up everything you’ve been near in a 60-hour period over a 10-mile radius.
Trademark Wessex words of wisdom
“I’m going to take a mouth swab. And the reason we do this first is basically so that you can have a cup of tea.” And: “You’re doing really well. Second request. Also comfort-related ...” Miller’s tone and facial expressions in these scenes were beautiful. Can we make Olivia Colman become a real police officer, please? It would help everyone.
“And you wonder why we call him Shitface.” “Can I ask you a question, Miller? How long have they been calling me Shitface?” “Since you first arrived.” DI Hardy summed up.
“You are not everyone. You are better than that. I will not have you be your father’s son.” Miller showcases her refreshingly rubbish parenting.
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