The Hour: series 2, episode 6

An ending both satisfactory and unsatisfactory.

WARNING: Don't read ahead if you haven't watched the series finale of The Hour yet - contains spoilers! You can catch up on the previous instalment here

We all knew it would happen eventually. We knew there would come a moment when Soho gangster and Hour villain-in-chief Rafael Cilenti would stop using shadowy, suggestive threats to manipulate and intimidate those around him, and start using his fists. But I for one certainly didn’t anticipate that the casualty of that transition would be Ben Whishaw’s quirky, beautiful face.

It was with brutal shocks like this that the second series The Hour came to a close last night. Having set up so many parallel plots (see here and here for my enumeration of what they all were) there was a danger in this finale that the viewer was yanked through endings for all of them in succession, leaving the episode choppy and the audience exhausted. But this pitfall was avoided by giving this episode a strong central storyline of its own, meaning that each little story acted out its ending in the margin. Some of them were just the lightest of scribbles, too - we discovered that Isaac's radio play was heavily based on his colleagues at The Hour, and that Sissy and Sey struggled to find witnesses for their wedding because of racial prejudice, or that government press officer McCain finally stopped spinning for corrupt politicians and managed to transform himself into a proto-PR agent.

The Hour on air. Photograph: BBC

And that main action? A breathless rush to the finish line as The Hour team attempted to prove the connection between the corruption and vice in the West End and the arms race profiteering going on at the heart of the government. Freddie succinctly made the case for why they were seeking to make this connection early on, saying “These are men who decide policy, and they’re lying and deceiving their wives. Why should they get to decide what else goes on?” Hector and Commander Stern, old comrades-in-arms, each implicated in the story, both finally faced their own failings. Hector went on to publicly acknowledge his involvement with the club, interview the woman who falsely accused him of beating her on air, and even forgiving his wife for getting pregnant with another’s man’s child (which, given his own repeated adultery, was really the very least he could do). Stern, seemingly without the same support network, committed suicide in his car.

Before Freddie dashed off to try and save their story, he finally crossed the line in his relationship with Bel. She’d just had a bust up in the corridor with Bill, her ITV bloke, who had stormed off declaring her to be “impossible” and saying that their relationship “wasn’t going anywhere”. We should have known, really, when Freddie leaned in to kiss Bel that all would not be permitted to end happily for them – more on that in a second.

Despite everything, the show-stealing performance once again came from Peter Capaldi and Anna Chancellor. They finally received news of their long-lost daughter, only to discover that she and her foster parents had been killed in an air raid during the war. On reading the documents, Chancellor sobbed, frozen in a twisted posture in her chair by the weight of her sadness, while Capaldi yelled at her to get out of the room. When she refused, telling him to “do what he needed to do”, he exploded into his hitherto only hinted-at obsessive compulsive disorder, lining everything up neatly on his desk before throwing it all into chaos and collapsing on top of it, head on his arms in devastation. Eventually, after initially fighting her off, he allows Lix to hold him – and that’s how we leave them.

Anna Chancellor and Peter Capaldi stole the show. Photograph: BBC

Once again, the personal and the political were merged as The Hour arrived at its climax. Freddie sacrificed his own safety in order to get the key witness for their story to the studio in time, but as Cilenti and his goons pummelled his face and torso, you couldn’t help feeling he was doing it for Bel as well – proving to her that he won’t let her down, personally or professionally. The terrified, perfect face of Kiki DeLaine exposing the corruption and vice on air was inter cut with the horrifying spectacle of Ben Whishaw’s bloody, battered face (I know from the outcry on my Twitter feed that I was far from the only person strongly tempted to throw things at the television during this sequence).

They dumped him on the grass outside the studio, and for a few heartstopping moments while we watched Bel crying in her office, rereading the love letter she never sent him, we couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead. Then he began to whisper “Moneypenny, Moneypenny” and she somehow heard the hated nickname and started running to his side, only for the programme to end before she got to there. Not for The Hour, the fond sickbed reconciliation and an implied future for the characters.

No – only a cut to a black screen, followed by the credits and our lingering doubts, that with Ben Whishaw’s burgeoning film career, The Hour will even have a third series.

I’ve really enjoyed blogging this series of The Hour and chatting to you all in the comments and on Twitter. If you’d like to read back through the whole series blog, you can do so here.

Leave his face out of it! Photograph: BBC

Caroline Crampton is assistant editor of the New Statesman.

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Will playing a farting corpse allow Daniel Radcliffe to finally shake off his Hogwarts associations?

Radcliffe is dead good in Swiss Army Man – meaning he is both good, and dead. Plus: Deepwater Horizon.

Actors who try to shake off a clean-cut ­image risk looking gimmicky or insincere – think of Julie Andrews going topless in SOB, or Christopher Reeve kissing Michael Caine in Deathtrap. Daniel Radcliffe has tried to put serious distance between himself and Hogwarts in his choice of adult roles, which have included Allen Ginsberg (in Kill Your Darlings) and an FBI agent going undercover as a white supremacist (Imperium), but it is with the macabre new comedy Swiss Army Man that he stands the best chance of success. He’s good in the film. Dead good. He has to be: he’s playing a flatulent corpse in a moderate state of putrefaction. If ever there was a film that you were glad wasn’t made in Odorama, this is it.

The body washes up on an island at the very moment a shipwrecked young man, Hank (Paul Dano), is attempting to hang himself. He scampers over to the corpse, which he nicknames Manny, and realises he could use its abundant gases to propel himself across the ocean. Once they reach another shore and hide out in the woods, Hank discovers all sorts of uses for his new friend. Cranked open, the mouth dispenses endless quantities of water. The teeth are sharp enough to shave with. A spear, pushed deep into Manny’s gullet, can be fired by pressing down on his back, thereby turning him into an effective hunting weapon.

On paper, this litany of weirdness reads like a transparent attempt to manufacture a cult film, if that term still has any currency now that every movie can claim to have a devoted online following. The surprising thing about Swiss Army Man is that it contains a robust emotional centre beneath the morbid tomfoolery. It’s really a buddy movie in which one of the buddies happens to have expired. That doesn’t stop Manny being a surprisingly lively companion. He talks back at his new friend (“Shall I just go back to being dead?” he huffs during an argument), though any bodily movements are controlled by Hank, using a pulley system that transforms Manny into a marionette.

The gist of the film is not hard to grasp. Only by teaching Manny all the things he has forgotten about life and love can the depressed Hank reconnect with his own hope and humanity. This tutelage is glorious: improbably ambitious DIY models, costumes and sets (including a bus constructed from branches and bracken) are put to use in play-acting scenes that recall Michel Gondry at his most inspired. If only the screenplay – by the directors, Daniel Kwan and Daniel Scheinert – didn’t hammer home its meanings laboriously. Manny’s unembarrassed farting becomes a metaphor for all the flaws and failings we need to accept about one another: “Maybe we’re all just ugly and it takes just one person to be OK with that.” And maybe screenwriters could stop spelling out what audiences can understand perfectly well on their own.

What keeps the film focused is the tenderness of the acting. Dano is a daredevil prone to vanishing inside his own eccentricity, while Radcliffe has so few distinguishing features as an actor that he sometimes seems not to be there at all. In Swiss Army Man they meet halfway. Dano is gentler than ever, Radcliffe agreeably deranged. Like all good relationships, it’s a compromise. They make a lovely couple.

What to say about Deepwater Horizon? It’s no disaster as a disaster movie. Focusing on the hows and whys of the most catastrophic accident in US oil drilling history, when an explosion consumed an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico in 2010, it doesn’t stint on blaming BP. Yet it sticks so faithfully to the conventions of the genre – earthy blue-collar hero (Mark Wahlberg), worried wife fretting at home (Kate Hudson), negligent company man (John Malkovich) – that familiarity overrides suspense and outrage.

The effects are boringly spectacular, which is perhaps why the most chilling moment is a tiny detail: a crazed seagull, wings drenched in oil, flapping madly on the deck long before the fires start. As a harbinger of doom, it’s only mildly more disturbing than Malkovich’s strangulated accent. 

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

This article first appeared in the 29 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, May’s new Tories