All pants and no Faroe Islands sweater. /shoots self and all British broadsheet writers in face.
So pleadingly cinematic but so ploddingly, paltrily televisual. Conceived as an iceberg, with untold heft just below the surface, but in fact a Smatian narrow boat, with a keel like a lolly stick. Dialogue scenes in 2 modes: the nakedly expository ("have you talked about having any more kids?") and the pathetically cod-portentous ("Things? What sort of things?" "Monsters" "Monsters?"). GRIT as signified by a sexy lady introduced whilst covered in blood from an animal carcass.
Imagine spending all that money and getting that cast and then putting it all in service of such paucity of imagination and ambition. The Paul Smith wearing turd who, tasked to come up with a PRESTIGE drama, thought: "the broadsheets go mad for those Scando things. Lets do one of them. Anyone know the number of the agent for that Sophie Lund woman?". Like an Aberdonian city planner deciding to build an "Italian-style piazza". As Ikea is to Alvar Aalto. Or like me writing a short story that is recognisably ripped off from JG Ballard but has no life of its own.
If this is Sky's plan to keep themselves going after they lose half their sports rights to BT then they are fucked.