What Remains on BBC1: Not so much a whodunnit as a why-oh-whydunnit

The BBC's new and much-trailed series about a workaholic detective who just can't let go strains credulity, despite its worthy-enough intentions.

Like a vole or a shrew, David Threlfall is all nose and eyes. It’s through their twitching and blinking that his furry – sorry, I mean actorly – wit is most often conveyed. In the new and much-trailed BBC series What Remains (Sundays, 9pm), in which he plays an almost-retired and then newly retired London copper, he snuffles his way around even the most clichéd of lines, wilfully oblivious of this being one show for which he will almost certainly not be awarded a Bafta (an ageing, workaholic detective who just can’t let go? Give me a break!).
I don’t know if it troubled Threlfall that his character, Len Harper, allows a young woman to stroll blithely on to a possible crime scene, mop and bucket in hand; or that his door-to-door inquiries involve nothing more than wedging his card inside people’s locks for them to find when they get home. But in the end, his conviction – the snuffling and the truffling, the scratching and quivering – somehow carries the day. Awarding these procedural sillinesses a free pass, you settle in and give yourself up to the drama.
At the heart of What Remains is a big Victorian house. Once it must have been grand but now it’s shabby and faded. Inside are five flats – and if you’ve ever lived in such a place, you will know the scene: noise that carries intrusively, neighbours who can hardly bear to look one another in the eye, hallways piled with kebab-shop flyers.
When it comes to metropolitan isolation, however, this building’s residents put the rest of us in the shade. For the purposes of narrative tension, they do know each other’s names; it turns out that a new arrival, Michael (Russell Tovey), was even taught by Mr Sellers (David Bamber), the mean old schoolteacher who lives in the basement. But one of the residents, Melissa, who lived in the top-floor flat, has also been lying dead in the attic for at least two years, her body stinking and mummified, and yet none of them noticed.
Crikey. I know people are busy and introverted and unkeen on fuss, especially the kind of fuss that might have house prices plummeting. But really. You’d have thought someone would have picked up something. I didn’t buy the line by the crime scene officer about how the loft space was cold and airy enough for there not to have been much of a smell. Where I live, it’s whiffy round the bins even in mid-December – and we’re talking (I hope) two-day-old chicken biryanis, not rotting corpses.
Did Melissa have an accident or was she murdered? This is what DI Harper intends to discover. So far, though, his investigations are proving tricky. The autopsy has told him next to nothing, and Melissa seems to have had no computer, mobile phone or close relatives. (Yeah, I know.) Mr Sellers disliked her but not half so much as he loathes the lesbian couple who live on the first floor – and they’re still very much alive. None of the other residents has anything at all to say about her, good or bad. It’s all a bit of a puzzle.
What Remains is clearly intended to be not so much a whodunnit as a why-oh-whydunnit; its writer, Tony Basgallop (Hotel Babylon, Inside Men), seems to be more interested in the way we live now than in weapons and motives. You will have gathered that I think his script strains credulity and that he’s very lucky indeed his cast includes the likes of Threlfall and Bamber.
All the same, he’s on to something. Modern life is increasingly lonely, and I would like to see more television that explores this. I no longer – thank God – live in a flat where I am able to hear the man above me peeing hotly at 3am but I’m as aware as I ever was of the painful, uneasy disjunction between our physical proximity and our emotional distance from one another.
For more on this, I recommend Carol Morley’s plangent, upsetting 2011 film, Dreams of a Life, which pieces together the story of Joyce Carol Vincent, a 38-year-old woman who lay dead in her flat in Wood Green, north London, for almost three years. When her body finally was discovered, the TV was still on – and it is this detail, more than any other, that speaks to the age. The flickering of a screen, be it television or computer: this is what counts as company in the 21st century, in life and even in death. 
Home visit: David Threlfall as DI Len Harper. Photgraph: BBC.

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 02 September 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Syria: The west humiliated

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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