Reviewed: Life of Crime

Force of nature.

Life of Crime

I love Hayley Atwell’s performance as a south London cop in Life of Crime (10 May, 9pm) in every respect save for one: her accent. Do you know any coppers this posh? And no, before you ask, she is not supposed to be a Cambridge graduate on the fast track to the top of the Metropolitan Police (see Rupert Penry-Jones in Whitechapel). Her dad was also a policeman and her mum is London Irish, with the brogue to match. When we first meet her, she’s still living at home in a shabby terrace with a velour three-piece suite and a set of wine glasses that look like they came free with petrol. So quite where her immaculate RP came from, I don’t know. Even if she had unaccountably picked it up down her local comprehensive, you’d think she’d occasionally throw in the odd George Osborne-style glottal stop, given the company a copper keeps.

It bothered me a lot, this voice, but I kept watching because I really like the set-up of the series – it begins in 1985, when Denise Woods is a humble WPC in Brixton nick, and then follows her down the years (part two is set in 1997, by which time she is a DI; in part three it’s 2013 and she is a senior officer) – and also because Atwell is a captivatingly good actor when it comes to unspoken emotion. I believe in her character’s commitment to her work – her drive, determination and absolute refusal to allow the men to push her aside – in a way that I very much didn’t in the case of Emily Watson as an MP in The Politician’s Wife. It’s going to be fascinating to see how Atwell ages Denise; from what I read, she has done this with no help at all from wigs and stick-on wrinkles.

Anyway, 1985 . . . A girl has been murdered, but no one – by which I mean Denise’s male superiors – wants to know. Or at least, they would like to take the path of least resistance and hang it on the victim’s father, who has a temper. Denise, on the other hand, wants to know very much indeed. So determined is she to get her man, she might just be about to overstep the mark (I won’t say more, in case you’re saving it up). It’s true that Life of Crime is slightly underwritten (it’s by Declan Croghan, who also brought us episodes of Ripper Street and Waking the Dead); the dialogue is underpowered and lacks the fruity richness of, say, Life on Mars. It can be predictable. It was only a matter of minutes before a colleague had said to Woods: “Are you lesbian, or something?” But the plot is clever, dishing up an act of madness on her part that will have consequences even decades later, and I liked Con O’Neill’s performance as her boss, DI Ferguson, a man whose frayed exterior left you wondering whether he was a decent man masquerading as a ratbag, or a ratbag masquerading as a decent man.     

In truth, though, episode one was worth watching for atmosphere alone. My God, the Eighties. For all that I was there, I still can’t get over them. How weird to remember that women constables were then expected to walk the streets in bulky skirts, sheer-ish tights and cross-body leather handbags (for all their make-up, presumably). Atwell and her co-star Richard Coyle, a detective who drives a brown Ford Capri, did some fantastic Eighties dancing at a nightclub called – I’m guessing at the spelling –Subotica, where the DJ looked exactly like Paul “It-took-me- 90-minutes-to-trim-these-sideburns” King. He played some Go West, which made me smile (most series would have had him spinning the Human League or Spandau Ballet), and when Woods asked him whether he knew the girl who had died, he replied that he had merely “got off with her” one night. Do people still say “got off with”? I’d love to know.

This isn’t Broadchurch, I see that, but it’s great to see yet another tough woman copper hijack prime time. Not so long ago, we had to make do with Jane Tennison. Now, though, they’re everywhere – and some of them even manage to have private lives, too.

Life of Crime concludes on Friday 24 May

Hayley Atwell in Life of Crime. Photo: ITV.

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 13 May 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Eton Mess

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On the trail of Keith Jarrett's melodies

Lose focus for a second and you can quickly drop the thread of Jarrett's complex improvisational techniques.

“So, this is a piano,” said Keith Jarrett, sitting down at the one that had been placed centre stage for him in the Royal Festival Hall on 20 November. Blowing on his hands to warm them, he acted as if he had never encountered such an instrument before, raising a chuckle from the hundreds of fans who had turned out to see the man in the flesh. For 40 years, Jarrett has been giving concerts like this – alone with the piano, playing his improvised music to a room full of rapt devotees. Notoriously grumpy – and now as well known for his tirades against cameras and coughing audience members as for his early days playing with Miles Davis – he has an almost eerie focus onstage, relieving the tension only very occasionally with his barbed observations about the excellence of the instrument, or the shuffling in the auditorium.

Jarrett gave us a series of short pieces, each rendering separate and distinctive musical ideas. He began with an intricately woven flash of notes in both hands, criss-crossing the melodies that were by turns dark and haunting, or light and dancing. At particularly complex moments, when his arms were crossed over and the notes were flowing from his fingers faster than anyone could imagine them into existence, he leaned his ear down towards the keys, as if physical closeness could help his ideas more swiftly become sound.

A couple of folk-inflected ballads followed; heart-achingly sweet melodies picked out above rumbling, sour arpeggios. Like Glenn Gould, the Canadian pianist best known for his recordings of Bach’s Goldberg Variations, Jarrett can’t help adding vocalisations as he plays, which are all the more evident in his quieter compositions. He rose and fell from his stool; we heard his guiding hum along with the melody, as well as the odd strangled shout, yelp and grunt. He might insist on absolute silence from the audience but his own noises seem completely uninhibited as the music spins around him.

Although notorious for his curmudgeonly attitude to his fans, Jarrett was mostly restrained in this outing, allowing himself just one short, sweary outburst about killing a “f***ing camera”. At the age of 70 and with the power to sell out his concerts in just a few hours, you do wonder how much of the persona is genuine and how much of it is just giving the audience what it expects. A case in point came near the end, when he yielded to clamouring and gave a surprisingly simple and straightforward rendition of “Danny Boy”, an encore that long-time fans know well.

Given that this recital was under the auspices of the London Jazz Festival, there was surprisingly little in Jarrett’s programme that could easily be identified as jazz. One piece, full of brisk rhythms and chunky chords, gradually revealed itself to be based on a modified 12-bar blues structure and another had haunting overtones surely pulled from the classic American songs of the first half of the 20th century. Indeed, this musical ghosting becomes a major preoccupation when you see Jarrett live. It is too easy to distract yourself in trying to follow the auditory trail he has laid for you – was that a bit of Debussy, or Bach, or Glass just then? – and lose the thread of what he plays next. The improvisational technique might have more in common with jazz but now, 40 years on from his bestselling live recording The Köln Concert, it’s difficult to characterise Jarrett’s output as anything other than contemporary classical music.

If it needs a classification, that is. At one point, I became convinced that a particular piece was a Jarrett riff on Beethoven’s Bagatelle No 25 in A Minor – or Für Elise, as it is more commonly known. I was sure it was all there: the extended opening trill, the rising arpeggios in the left hand, the melody cascading from treble to bass and back again. Except, by the time I surfaced from my musing, there was no trace of Beethoven to be heard. A clashing, almost violent melody was dangling over a long drone in the bass. If you try too hard to pin down Jarrett’s music, it moves on without you.

Caroline Crampton is web editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State