The criss-crossing timelines gradually show how all these personal lives evolved over time, and it really does keep you hooked. Loading in such familial emotion is pretty nimble writing.
I thought The Capture might be over-stretching itself with a third series, but here is its big strength: you cannot predict what is going to happen next.
I do wonder if the MIU would be quite so harsh on the actions of a doctor who had just had a gun waved in her face, but then this is a TV drama. I can also see it becoming addictive.
It’s such fun. Awash with academic ego and sexual brinkmanship, it leans into the main character’s obsessiveness and makes us almost complicit in ways that feel naughty, grown-up and sophisticated — quite rare for a Netflix show these days but hugely welcome.
Being Ritchie, all this rollicks along, high on its own reimagining — and hats off to the natty suits — but at eight episodes it’s somewhat overstuffed. Things are so much more compelling in the smaller moments.
So it feels odd, the pleasure of watching the same old Scrubs tempered by the slight feeling that we’re getting reheated leftovers. A lot of the humour is still sharp and it has its old moral compass — there is an affecting storyline involving a man who cannot afford his heart medication. But what, you slightly wonder, is the point?
