In memory of my mother, 1940 to 2018.

A month ago today my mother passed away in relative peace in a hospital in Australia. She had been unwell for some years, so in some respects it was not unexpected, but that doesn’t prepare you for the loss. The grief.

I had booked flights to Australia the weekend before for the weekend ahead, but I missed seeing her. I am glad that my brother had been with her shortly before, but sad that my father had been apart from her because of his own illness. I made it back for the funeral, which was a small affair with friends and family. Officiated by a minister in the Presbyterian church mum attended for as long as she could, the eulogies presented by a sister-in-law and former school mate, a brother-in-law who had been Mum and Dad’s best man, and me. I have decided to publish my eulogy here on my blog.

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Mum as a child, and subject of a prize-winning photograph at the Royal Easter Show. Photographer unknown.

Over the last few weeks I have been thinking about stories that encapsulate mum and what she meant to me, as though one story ever could. Mum filled her life with many activities and touched the lives of countless in various ways.

Then, I remembered the day back in 2004 when I went to tell Mum and Dad that I had got a job in England and would be moving to live in the UK for a few years at least. I was nervous; it’s a big piece of news to share. But, I needn’t have worried. Mum had guessed pretty much my plans, and I remember her sharing how different things were back in the early 1960s when she embarked for her first big overseas adventure with Dad shortly after they married. Back then regular communication was letter writing, the post carried by sea and taking about 3 months or so to travel between London and Sydney. They had kept aside an amount of money for a telegram in case of an emergency. Phone calls were prohibitively expensive. But, now we have Skype, emails – and even regular phone calls are affordable. And so it was that we kept in contact, adjusting as needed, and we also met up in various far flung places.

As I stared at the map showing the distance my flight had travelled and the distance yet to come on my return to Sydney last week, my thoughts turned to Mum’s love of travel, of exploring new places both in Australia and overseas, and the joy she took in sharing her and Dad’s adventures.

As a family, we travelled across NSW to meet branches of her family – the old uncles in Coonamble and Coonabarabran, a family driving holiday up the NSW coast, another in Victoria, and another around Tassie – Mum loved to drive so much especially out in the open country. Further afield I remember her stories about her and Dad’s driving trip around Ireland. About doing what the locals do to supplement an erratic bus service, and patiently waiting while the locals chatted in the narrow village streets.

Annual trips to Mudgee for the music and wine festivals were a loved feature of Mum’s life while I was studying in Canberra, and I used to enjoy her reports.

Mum, with Dad, explored Europe from West to East – all the way to Russia, and meeting family in Germany and the Netherlands at various times. I remember her talking about the first snow and ice she encountered in the Netherlands on her first trip in the early 1960s.

The UK – both London and beyond – and as a family we lived there twice, and S— was of course born there. Connected to those trips were weeks at a time in Singapore.

Mum also loved her time in New York City, and I enjoyed hearing about her experiences in California and Mexico, and later from Vietnam and Cambodia. Later yet the cruises around the Pacific, and around Australia.

I was pleased to be able to join both Mum and Dad on trips to Hamburg, Rome and Athens on separate occasions. In each we did what Mum and Dad both loved – spend about a week in each city to get to know it a bit better. Mum shared her wisdom in getting us to explore what we wanted to explore, and while we shared dinner together we also shared what we had seen and done. Easier in these days of digital photography to share the photos we had taken, and Mum took some amazing photographs.

Mum curated all the various travels in numerous photo albums, which are a joy to review and relive shared adventures, and to see how the minutiae of international and domestic travel has changed in the kept tickets and timetables.

Mum also travelled far in her books – histories, biographies, novels, and detective fiction. She was a regular at the local library, latterly they regularly visited to deposit a selection. We shared books and our views on them in emails, but more often in person when we met in Sydney, or in the UK, or elsewhere in Europe.

It’s difficult to remember that within all that travel Mum worked for much of the time that she raised me and S— – she loved her job at Formica, and treasured the friendships she made there. They joined long friendships from other places where she had worked, also in the UK on the two long stays there in the early 1960s and early 1970s.

On retirement, she volunteered her time for Amnesty International, and then also cleaning stamps for re-sale for charity – something she was doing until very recently when she could.

But she also took courses and learned how to make books; I treasure the notebooks she made and gave as gifts.

Mum was everything that Aunty Lyn and Uncle Guy have already shared.

A school friend of mine told me how much she remembers Mum being so welcoming when they came over to our house in B—, and later in North Sydney. I remember the many parties of my friends, of her and Dad’s friends, and of course the Groenewegen family Christmases.

Mum lived a long and full life; always giving. She will live on in our memories – and there are so very many memories.

Modigliani at the Tate Modern

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View of the Shard from the Tate Modern, February 2018.

On Friday last week I had one of those fab unexpected moments. A friend, who I hadn’t seen for a ridiculously long time because we both have fairly busy working lives, contacted me to see if I was interested in going to see the Modigliani exhibition at the Tate Modern. I was, had no other commitments.

After a bracing walk along the Thames south bank we decided to just head to the Tate Modern. It was with a bit of a jolt that I realised I hadn’t been there for such a long time – when they first opened up the new tank part of the extension. My friend took me up to the observation deck and we watched as the grey twilight crept over the London skyline. We didn’t stay long because of the icy winds, but I will most definitely be making my way up there again for the astonishing views of London. Tip for tourists on a budget: the Tate Modern is free (but donations are always welcome).

We then decided to dine at the restaurant, which was surprisingly good and reasonably priced. Not cheap, but given the quality of the food and matched wines (if you choose that option) really quite incredible for a restaurant in an art gallery. We also had friendly and attentive service; very human. Highly recommended, although if you’re a Tate member your discount doesn’t apply there. We took the time to catch up properly.

We then headed down to the exhibition.

I remember my father liking Modigliani’s art, but I must say that I knew very little about his work. I knew he painted a lot of portraits of men and women with elongated faces, and a lot of nude women.

The exhibition features Modigliani’s work mostly from when he was in Paris in 1906 when he was 21 years old. A lot of the paintings dated from the Great War years and yet covers a fair range of his styles. Modigliani died young, in January 1920, so his output is really quite astonishing. He also only ever had one solo exhibition during his lifetime.

I was fascinated by how he managed to capture moments of expression in many of his portraits. Little glimpses into human behaviour in otherwise quite sparse portraits in terms of detail. He used a few of the same models and the exhibition groups a few of these together, along with photographs of the models, and that enabled comparisons.

There was a room devoted to some of his sculptures, which were interesting in that they showed his influences – Cycladic, south-east Asian, and perhaps the giant heads from Easter Island – but otherwise left me cold. I found his paintings to be generally warmer and more human.

I liked that the exhibition opened and closed with self-portraits that captured the changes in him physically and in terms of his standing as an artist and man in just a few short years.

The exhibition runs until 2 April 2018.

Review: Criminal Minds seasons 1 to 12

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The FBI’s Hoover Building, Washington DC. September 2013.

Ever since I first watched Silence of the Lambs back in 1991 I’ve been fascinated by fictional serial killers, and fascinated and repulsed by real life ones. I can’t remember when Criminal Minds first came across my radar, but I do remember resisting watching it for a while. I have only ever seen it in DVD box sets, rarely catching an episode I’ve already seen on TV. I wrote the entry on it for the 1001 TV Shows You Must Watch Before You Die, and continue to think that what I wrote on it for that book as true. It’s a solid ensemble show that gets more right than wrong, especially when you factor in the requirements of delivering 20 plus weekly episodes where the team have to solve a problem in about 40 minutes.

The strengths of the show are the ensemble cast. The Behavioural Analysis Unit are a team. They have their roles, their specialist capabilities, and because of what they see and do they bond. There is a consistency to the strains on their relationships that we see not just through the women, but the men. How they realise the ways they need to cope with the horrors they witness. The show often takes the tropes of crime fiction – the cop who fails at relationships – and explores variations on that theme. In the last few seasons, Rossi has got to address some of his past failed relationships with new insight from being more mature.

The show is not perfect.

The FBI Academy in Quantico, VA, is nestled within acres of US Marines training grounds. It’s not a place the general public can just wander into, and it’s also a fairly long drive from Washington DC. Yet, too often the characters are visited by members of the general public without prior arrangement, and often the characters zip between DC and their offices as though it’s just downtown. Also, quite a few of the characters seem to be able to afford living in Georgetown. Not entirely convinced their salaries would allow that, but who knows.

The biggest thing that never fails to make me laugh is the idea that in the Criminal Minds universe Interpol is some hot international spying group filled with Jason Bournes and James Bonds. Nope. Nope. Just no. It’s a bureau function. It enables the sharing of information and intelligence (processed information, not all from secretive sources) across international jurisdictions for local police to act upon. London is not their HQ, and it would be really difficult for the UK’s bureau to be headed up by an FBI Special Agent.

But what the show does get right more often than not are the realism of the perpetrators, the unknown subjects (unsubs), the team are called in to identify and stop. A few do exist on the preposterous end of the spectrum in terms of their dastardly abilities and focussing on our team, but most are realistic or even mundane. The team, mostly Dr Spencer Reid, provide details of where these offenders overlap with real life examples, and where they divert. The team doesn’t only advise on serial murder, they couldn’t and maintain credibility as a show. Again, while not perfect, the show manages to mostly not sexualise violence against women – a difficult balance to achieve given the statistical frequency of sexual violence by men against women when compared with men against men, or women offenders. The show is quite good at pointing out that while there can be a sexualised element to serial murder this isn’t a defining characteristic.

The show is also generally good at being sensitive about victim groups. From pretty much the start of the series, the team do not judge victims and victim groups on the grounds of their sexual orientation, skin colour, mental health, class, or profession. They do observe the relative risks evident in the cases they are called in to provide advice, but don’t preach.

One of the show’s other strengths is that it doesn’t shy away from the FBI’s history, nor the breadth and range in professionalism across the USA’s many, many police forces. The show is also pretty good on trends and how they are used and abused by criminals. Selfies on social media to target victims, bitcoin, the dark web, even SWATing have appeared in the show before they become really well-known in the zeitgeist.

I enjoy the show, but it has its faults. The 11th and 12th seasons have both seen some extensive cast changes in the team. I think for the better, in many ways. I just hope it keeps its nerve as a generally good quality FBI procedural show with a cracking ensemble cast.

A Look at Peter Weir’s Picnic at Hanging Rock and Dead Poets Society

As my last blog post covered, I recently watched The Good Wife, which starred Josh Charles, whose other main credit was Knox Overstreet in Dead Poets Society. I hadn’t watched that film in years and had a sudden yearning to revisit it.

I was an undergraduate student when it first came out back in 1989. My friends and I saw it multiple times (films were cheap back then where I went to university). For all its familiarity, the two trigger points still triggered me. I rarely cry at films or TV, but Dead Poets gets me in two scenes because the film spoke to me on a profound level. It still speaks to me, but it’s different now.

Back then my wounds still bled, and I’m not writing entirely figuratively.

I went to a single-sex high school. State-run, but it had pretensions of being private and exclusive. My years spanned the 1980s when there was a bit of a backlash against the social progress of the 1960s and 1970s. None of this is clear-cut, of course, with different bits moving at different speeds. My school was ruled by a woman who insisted on being called Head Mistress – none of that gender-neutral Principal rot for her. She was enthralled by Ronald Reagan, and went to the USA to witness his second inauguration. On return she expressed her wish that Australians would emulate the US form of overt patriotism. I remember teachers had issue with her approach, and as I grew older and experienced the beginnings of friendship with some of them I learned their concern was about how she nurtured a school that excelled in all the classes that would turn unruly girls into good wife material.

Only the real world intervened, and the state curriculum ensured that we got a late 20th century education. However, I didn’t quite fit in and I ended up repeating my final year of senior high school at an independent school that I thrived in. That’s life, and decades on the pain of living it has receded.

Parts of my experiences were what made me identify with Neil Perry and his struggle to be free to explore his talent. His tragedy is and always has been that he merely stretched the confines of his life, not break it, and yet he saw death as his only way out. His talent was acting, mine writing and the intellectual pursuits of history and politics.

As a school kid, and throughout my university years, I detested public speaking of any kind. I liked to write the words for others to speak. I was called shy, but really it was introversion. If I ever do write a letter to my teenaged self, a large paragraph would be all about how I needn’t worry about that. Confidence will deal with most of it, but also I have never felt the need to just talk unless I have something to say. I am still that way.

So. Yes. I identified strongly with Todd Anderson.

Watching Dead Poets back now from the advantage of someone who has done pretty well in realising my dreams, and has learned a lot about how the world works, that shyness and introversion still resonate. Stronger, if anything. Todd’s confused, panicked bravery at the end when he confronts the Head Master to tell his teacher, Mr Keating, that he was forced to lie is an emotional punch because he is fighting so much to just speak. That and his reaction to the news of Neil’s death are the two scenes that get me every time. His normal desire to hide destroyed because of his all-consuming grief.

But, this watch I also saw the raw pain expressed by Neil’s parents.

That’s Weir’s genius as a director. The small, powerful scenes. Mostly unspoken. I think I had unconsciously picked up on it when I consciously identified so strongly with the kids. Now, as an adult, it’s undeniably there. So much depth in a short film by today’s standards.

I decided to then watch Weir’s earlier film, Picnic at Hanging Rock (the 1998 director’s cut). It’s another favourite of mine that I have watched many times, but I’ve never watched these two sequentially.

What struck me were the similarities between the two films. There are the obvious points: the strict school principals, the sensitive child who doesn’t fit in, the inspiring teacher who doesn’t fit the school’s restrictive ethos, the rebellion by the kids, the forbidden infatuation of the other by an outsider, and the death by suicide of a kid who sees no way out even though escape is arguably nearby. Both schools are steeped in British tradition in their new lands. Both films are of their landscapes, too, and hint at the past, restive human occupants that the white people blunder into. Both films are fascinating character studies, beautifully shot and underplayed, but with moments of explosive emotion.

There are obvious differences. Gender the main one, at least on the surface. Miss Appleyard’s college is run by women for girls; Welton Academy is run by men for boys. Having said that, the male world of Dead Poets Society is not particularly masculine. In fact, it questions it and pokes at it from a few different angles. Neither at the time I first watched them, nor now, did I feel any attraction to any of the characters. I identified with some, their problems and struggle to be themselves yes, but I never fantasised about any desires for them. I never saw them as sexual beings.

Both films are really more about class and colonialism, with a culture uprooted from Britain and transplanted to two different post-colonial white nations. Both films examine class through the lens of the past; 1900 and the 1959. Both show the clash of the lower classes played out by kids who cannot control how that clash affects their lives. Neither Sarah (the orphan from Picnic) nor Neil can cope when that clash threatens their lives and dreams – for Sarah the knowledge that Miranda will never reappear and that she is destined for poverty, for Neil the knowledge that acting is forbidden him and that he is destined to a military academy to entrench him in the upper middle class.

Both films are set on the cusp of times of great liberating change, too, for each country.

Picnic is based rather closely on the 1967 novel by Joan Lindsay, but Dead Poets had an original screenplay by Tom Schulman. Weir had a lot of creative control over both films, and I wonder how many of these thematic echoes were simply just what happens or were at any time deliberate.

If you’ve not seen either film, I highly recommend both.

Review: The Good Wife

A few nights ago I finished watching all seven seasons of the Good Wife, the series that follows the path of Alicia Florrick standing by her husband Peter while scandal after scandal hits. Only it’s an image. She separates from him, and later initiates divorce proceedings. His first scandal involved him having sex with prostitutes, the second scandal was straight out corruption. All throughout other whispers of scandal dog him.

Corruption and sexual infidelity are the two strands that weave through the series. Them and hypocrisy.

There is also a lot about Alicia being a mother of two older children, and her relationships with friends, family and colleagues. Those relationships wax and wane, and part of Alicia’s growth as a character is when she realises those who are true friends or not. And oddly, both her and Peter’s mothers are shown but their fathers are absent. The series is all about the making of Alicia, both her own journey of discovery and her development as a potential politician. Eli Gold, the wonderful political strategist, gives her the image of Saint Alicia, when she’s actually not. It’s he who works out that she would be the better politician than her husband. Now that is a show I would love to see, which does bring me to the weirdness of watching this against the backdrop of real US politics. Season seven forays into a Presidential campaign. Any other year with any other campaign and this would have been safe. There’s an awkward line in one of the episodes about the unlikeliness of Trump’s success in the GOP primaries. Also, some good West Wing jokes, but it’s awkward when you know what happens. Is happening. Instead, it seemed to stick a bit with the obvious allusion to the Clintons.

I enjoyed the Good Wife, but it’s no The West Wing, or The Wire, or even ER. It’s cast – regular, recurring guests, and one-offs – lifted it from the mediocre, and there is some very smart writing to satisfy. But, binge-watching the seven seasons reveals the rhythm in which it gets stuck, and I grew very tired of the way that the same characters misunderstand the same actions by the same characters, season after season. I am sceptical that would actually be the case given how smart they are meant to be, and shown to be.

To be honest, the sex and relationships meant it dragged for me. Good to see women empowered with regard to sex, though, and I loved Kalinda Sharma for her confident bisexuality as much as her research skillz. But, I think it wandered into being a utopia of sexuality; witness how it failed to really grapple with the sexual predators that appear throughout the series. The obvious one is Peter Florrick where the show could have dug deep into this, but it went personal (Alicia’s feeling of betrayal by Kalinda, not Peter’s abuse of power over Kalinda – alluded to, but not really explored). Recurring client Colin Sweeney is creepy, actually dangerous, but Alicia is oddly impervious to the threat and the storylines were strangely humorous.

I thought the Good Wife’s strengths were the legal battles. The dealing with the different judges, and the different other lawyers, and grappling with various conundrums of the day. My disappointments were to do with when they’d raise an issue, and then skirt away from it. I was amazed it looked like they were going to really deal with corruption and abuse by the Chicago police, and it mentioned it, but then swerved away like it would be too risky. A shame. Properly engaging with these issues would have made it a truly great series.

Review: Dexter, the TV series

Ever since I first saw Silence of the Lambs, the 1991 film starring Jodie Foster and Anthony Hopkins, I have been fascinated by serial killers, both fictional and real. My interest in the real murderers did turn quickly from fascination to disgust. Learning about them was one reason why I ended up pursuing a career in law enforcement, although my personal involvement has remained tangential.

There is a difference between the real and fictional. Even those real serial killers who thwarted law enforcement and criminal justice for years if not decades did so through random chance rather than cunning masterplans. The reality is they are all too human with messy psychological and physical lives – that’s not to suggest that all those with psychological problems are serial killers. Should go without saying, but I did just want to be clear.

Dexter is based on a novel I have not read that plays the game of what if a serial killer was a hero, someone who in their tarnished way actually works for good, but all the while sating their urge to kill.

The premise is as comic book fantasy as the Walking Dead.

The TV series of Dexter is a compelling on in large part because of the cast. Michael C. Hall as Dexter Morgan, geeky blood splatter expert for Miami Metro Homicide and the heroic serial killer, carries the part beautifully. He’s believable as someone troubled, who battles with his lack of emotion to do the right thing and act morally. His monologues, and dialogues with the image of his dead foster father and moral weathervane are a hallmark of the series. As are Dexter’s near break-downs, the spiralling into chaos. His desire to trust and love other human beings always thwarted.

The Miami Metro Homicide family are also what makes this series. They are not the most professional, do dally with corruption, but most of them want to do a good job. They are a family, complete with squabbles and changing allegiances. It’s just a shame that some of the interesting stuff happens between seasons, and for plot reasons. I’m thinking particularly of the relationships between María LaGuerta and Angel Batista.

Each series attracted some top-notch actors, including Jimmy Smits, John Lithgow, Edward James Olmos, and Charlotte Rampling in key roles in the seasonal story arcs that pits Dexter, the serial killer targeting killers who evade justice against other monsters in human form… often with monumental personal cost to Dexter, his (foster) sister Debra Morgan, and/or other members of his family, work colleagues, and close circle of friends.

And therein lies the problem I have with the series. The first year went with the big one – his unknown big brother being a rival serial killer terrorising Miami, who becomes romantically entangled with Debra, and sets Dexter up for an almighty fall as Miami’s most prolific serial killer. It’s hard, dramatically, to match that. Generally, the series does, but I do wonder about casual viewers, or those who came to it later and didn’t catch up with the box set. I suspect a lot of WTF moments, also known as a high reliance on the ‘previously on Dexter’ summaries.

It is a beautifully shot series, though not as arty as Hannibal. I haven’t looked, but if there isn’t there should be fanfic mixing up the Dexter world with CSI Miami.

There are a lot of people who are fascinated in serial killers, and in a small percentage that fascination is unhealthy. On a quick search of the internet, I wasn’t too surprised to see some individuals who committed crimes who had those crimes and their motivations linked to Dexter. A couple of real-life cases attempted to use methods depicted on the series to disguise their crimes – mostly unsuccessfully, as it turned out. The fact that there will be those viewing who will want to emulate what they see is a thing that creators of what are essentially police procedural dramas do need to take into consideration. More of a risk with documentaries, I would suggest, and while this might seem dismissive, it’s not as though people didn’t do these things before popular culture showed them. Fact is that Dexter Morgan, like Hannibal Lector, is a totally fictional character who obeys the demands of storytelling, which is not the same as reality.

All-in-all, I’d recommend the series as a well-crafted and acted drama, with moments of dark comedy and visceral – often psychological – horror.

Foyle’s War

 

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The Old Town of Hastings

Foyle’s War hits three things I enjoy: detective stories set in the English countryside, World War II, and spies. The series is a guilty pleasure, though. Guilty because while generally good, it’s no Endeavour. Foyle’s War is slow-paced, fairly predictable, and the cast not known for their dynamism.

 

I watched all of it not too long ago. I’d seen all the WWII stories before – some of the stories more than once – but had not seen the Cold War ones before. In fact, they’d somehow passed me by. I only watched them because they were part of a box set I’d picked up on special, and I’m really pleased I did because I hugely enjoyed them. They had a spark missing from the WWII ones. Actually, thinking about it, it shouldn’t be that surprising given Foyle’s desire from the outset to work for the spooks rather than the plod. It’s a tension always there, but underplayed.

Michael Kitchen underplays Foyle, which is a style that doesn’t engage immediately. It’s tempting to think of the show as sleepy. As full of the English stereotypes of reservation. But, clearly Foyle is an introvert. Clear in an unshowy way. Difficult to pull off, and in unskilled hands would be terrible. Kitchen nails it, and when you know what to watch for it makes the show better than first expected.

I have always liked Honeysuckle Weeks as awkward Sam, the driver. The character is a fascinating one. She’s a young woman born into the cosy inter-war years and village vicarage. I imagine a girl who would have been stifled by that, but yet make do. Because you just did. Instead, the war came with opportunities she takes with a chaotic enthusiasm. Duty is her by-word, but there’s something else there. Bubbling under the surface of conformity is an unstructured intelligence. I wonder what she would have been with a mentor able to challenge the chaos. To channel it. Her role as a London Labour politician’s wife and MI5 employee in the last few stories capture all that. The problem is forgetting her husband was in the Special Operations Executive (SOE)…

That is the thing that irks about the series. Big things like the relationships that vanish without trace when they should be mentioned. Sam’s relationship with Foyle’s pilot son Andrew is beautifully done, and then ditched unconvincingly. A shame.

The other character who I didn’t think quite worked was DS Milner, and he started off as a promising idea. An injured soldier from the start of the conflict forced into a job he doesn’t enjoy and back into a marriage with a wife who rejected him. I think the actor couldn’t quite carry it off, but also it’s a difficult storyline to maintain as a secondary tale.

I took great pleasure in the little chats between Anthony Horowitz, the show’s main writer and creator, and historian Terry Charman from the Imperial War Museum after many of the later stories and included in the DVD box set. I really enjoy learning more about SOE, Bletchley Park, and the general flow of WWII in Europe.

The series didn’t baulk from difficult moral quandaries of class, race, gender, even queerness. Also the politics of the time. In the Cold War stories Communism features – both foreign fights and local socialist fights. As does extreme right wing politics. That latter even more pronounced during the WWII years with a stand out episode featuring Charles Dance as a thinly disguised Mosely.

Of course there are a few thinly disguised historical figures brought to the series. My favourite is Hilda Pierce, heavily modelled on the amazing Vera Atkins. She is in the WWII stories as a wonderful foil to Foyle, who comes into her own in the post-war years. It’s a lovely treatment of some interesting questions, paramount of which is the debate about women in distinctly grubby and dangerous war work. Yes, the real failures of SOE are explored, very much with an eye on the human impact. Those co-opted volunteers had families who mostly had no idea what their family members were up to.

One of the delights of the series was how it was able to incorporate newly discovered facts in its fictional world. Its attention to detail lovely, with only a very few errors. The most glaring of which was the cinema in a coastal town lit up at night while the blackout was still very much in force.

Foyle’s War is a cosy crime drama when all is said and done, but the added WWII and Cold War skulduggery and moral ambiguities lift it.