Woman of Stone

 "They come to punish..."

Mark Gatiss' annual Ghost Stories for Christmas are, it seems, quite firmly an annual fixture now, something which pleases me very much. This year we have an adaptation of E. Nesbit's Man-Size in Marble; it seems that, aside from her more well-known children's stories such as The Railway Children and Five Children and It, she was also wont to write the odd ghost story for her fellow adults.

Delightfully, the episode is book-ended by two rather witty little metatextual sequences with Celia Imrie as E. Nisbit herself, on her deathbed, telling the story to her doctor ad cheerfully chain-smoking as the lung cancer goes through the final stages of killing her- in themselves these scenres are at once a grim memento mori and a cheerful reminder that the only response to mortality is to live life to the full.

And yet this tale isdark. A newleywed couple, newly married, and all sorts of subtle indications of domestic abuse- the physical kind, yes, but also the cotrolling behaviour that lies behind it. And, with this being the 1880s, poor Laura has no recourse to justice, hope, or even dvorce. Awfil though it is, perhaps her end is a mercy of sorts.

And, of course, the ghostly (if very, very solid) force from the deep dark past echoes all this, the violent jealousy of me who, of course, apply that tired old double standard as they unthinkingly abuse their wives.

I saw the twist coming, yes, but it worked nevertheless. Capital punishment may be barbarous, Jack may be innocent of the specific crime for which he hangs... but I have no sympathy for him.

There is not, it has to be said, much to find scary in this episode. But it was excellent nonetheless.

A Very English Scandal: Episode 3

“I was rude, I was vile, I was queer, I was myself!"

After a peerless couple of episodes, themselves a bloody good example of quality telly, this final episode simply knocks both of them into a cocked hat. Extraordinary.

We see the evidence pieced together, inexorably, until the shocking moment of Thorpe's arrest arrives. The storytelling beats are perfect, the mix of humour and pathos just as in real life, the structure of the whole thing an absolute triumph of both writing and direction, the dialogue simply magnificent, the ending deeply satisfying.

There is of course a harsh light, leavened necessarily by humour, into the shocking levels of homophobia, police brutality, hypocrisy and rank snobbery- the way Thorpe blanks his old friend David, who happens to be northern and common, in the courtroom. But there is also a nod to the other side of the '70s- the clothes, the disco, the famous Peter Cook ribbing of the summing up with the line about "player of the pink oboe". There is injustice; there is inequality; these things are not ok and must be fought, but still there is life, and there is laughter, and there is joy. It's all wonderfully RTD and, after the sadly under-viewed Cucumber, reminds us that RTD is one of the best writers we have. That domestic, semi-confession scene with semi-confession, cod in parsley sauce, love, forgiveness and very understated English emotion, is alone worthy of a BAFTA.

Hugh Grant, of course, also triumphs here, finding even more nuance within this complicated, genuinely progressive man who, in the end, reflexively abuses his privilege to do terrible things, yet is also a victim of the prejudices of his generation. Adrian Scarborough excels too, though, enjoying himself hugely stealing the show as the larger-than-life George Carman. Yet Ben Whishaw perhaps lingers in the mind as Norman finally gets his day in court and finally becomes the gay icon he was destined to be.

A truly historic piece of telly, then, and it bloody well better get that shedload of BAFTAs. Perhaps, also, this is posterity's verdict on Thorpe, a complex man but not a good one. But, er, let's not be dissuaded from voting Lib Dem anyway. I'm fairly sure that Vince has never had any bloody huge Great Danes shot to cover up a murky past, and I wouldn't put it past either May or Corbyn...