There are times when The Listeners feels akin to a sprawling, uber-woolly episode of Black Mirror. But there’s also the sense that you’re partaking against your will in a televised immersive art installation, and I like that. Here is a drama that aggravates and intrigues in equal measure.
To be clear, Wolf, from the Sherlock production stable, is preposterously overstuffed. A late scene involving motorised crocodiles redefines “jumping the shark” for a whole new generation. That said, the country mansion/home invasion strand is a blast.
Halfway through, my chief concern is that it’s getting a tad oversoapy, like an Oz-based The Durrells. Let’s hope it doesn’t descend gurgling into the Sunday night primetime suds.
Bake Off remains an unapologetically eccentric show that sometimes makes Britain look as though it’s lost its tiny, crumb-strewn mind. But it’s still hella tasty.
Crucially, Maggie herself doesn’t collapse into caricature. Walter doesn’t resemble Thatcher – not the tiniest bit – but she somehow makes you feel her, warts and all.
The main problem, oddly, is Norton (also an executive producer). Not only does Pete’s accent go walkabout from Penzance to Surrey; he is such a soggy dweeb, lamenting away in his Seasalt Cornwall separates, that it feels like a misguided ruse to guard against Norton being typecast for ever as Tommy from Happy Valley. McArdle, however, is convincingly menacing: all faux-bonhomie and granite-hard eyes.
