There’s one line in BBC America’s dreary new limited series London Spy that sums everything up. It’s spoken as the climax to an initial meeting between Danny (Ben Whishaw), a lowly gay man whose boyfriend, Alex, has just been murdered, and Frances (Charlotte Rampling), Alex’s cold, calculating and estranged mother. She’s running through a bloc of information about her son – who, unbeknownst to Danny, was a government spy and, according to Frances, not the closeted loner he presented himself as – while Danny listens quietly, in anger and in mourning. Then, abruptly, she gets to his sex life. She tells Danny with a straight face that, for Alex, “sex was just another form of decryption.” Because, you know, he was a spy.
London Spy is filled with dialogue that doesn’t resemble actual human interaction – its characters seem perpetually in the habit of speaking in long, insultingly expositional monologues, while their screen partners listen patiently for minutes on-end – but more troublingly, it’s driven by this kind of opaque character definition. At five hours, the series follows Danny as he seeks to solve a murder while also, in the process, coming to terms with the eight-month relationship that he’d idealized and, perhaps, misjudged. Writer Tom Rob Smith has no tangible grip on the stakes. Strands of emotion provided by an exceptional cast are promptly snipped by scripts that tell instead of show, and confound instead of illuminate. It’s the very opposite of character-driven: London Spy parcels out conflicting information on its characters only as an attempt to enliven its clunky central mystery.
With each hour, Smith gets further away from what works. London Spy starts out as a modest noir-romance, gliding through the eight-month lovefest between Danny and Alex before swiftly forcing a meticulous re-examination. As the series begins, we meet Danny leaving a rowdy gay club at the crack of dawn, without anyone to call and with his stench of booze and sweat all but seeping through the screen. It’s easy to see why he runs toward Alex and dismisses potential secrets or problems; having the show reflect on such an idea, and dig into Danny’s complex relationships to love and sex as he confronts his lover's death, would seem an ideal path to take. But the extent to which this occurs is in heavy-handed dialogue – a little reflection on Alex’s past here; a brief flashback to shed some light there – and enigmatic characters functioning merely as part of the broader mystery.
This would be fine if London Spy were a remotely effective spy thriller. It is not. Danny is a far less interesting character as a determined problem-solver than a damaged romantic in mourning. As the show trudges on, the series slides away from the Alex/Danny relationship, instead unconvincingly honing in on Danny’s unloving parents, Alex’s sociopathic-yet-sympathetic mother and the late-in-life crisis of Danny’s elder mentor, Scottie (Jim Broadbent). The plot overwhelms, too: passingly invoked in this completely unnecessary web of global conspiracy are 9/11 trutherism, some vaguely-explained technology that could change mankind forever, and an agreement between intelligence agencies around the world – an alliance which, according to Scottie, has never formed in human history (!) – that was struck for the sole purpose of killing Alex. Why do we care? Trying to guess becomes futile: by the time Alex, Scottie and a few brainy pals are making such monumental discoveries in an abandoned building offshore, London Spy has long discredited any investable artistic motive.
Within director Jakob Verbruggen’s handsomely-mounted vision, Smith’s writing is idea-intensive, making for a suffocating combination of visual and textual impact. To make matters worse, there’s too much going on within the deliberate aesthetic. The heart of the show is never clear – Is it a classic spy thriller with a twist? A reimagining of a queer-identity narrative? A cynical take on romance? – since London Spy chronically shape-shifts based on who’s talking. Broadbent is often affecting, but he’s saddled with maudlin writing, as Scottie rather irrelevantly (and repeatedly) laments the self-hatred and irremovable scars that manifest with being a gay man of his generation. Rampling gets a couple of powerhouse scenes to work with, but the drastic contortions of her character – done solely for the purposes of serving the story – prevent any legitimate engagement with what she’s trying to do. These supporting players, particularly, indicate the lack of focus that renders London Spy a five-hour slog of spy clichés and half-baked twists.
Whishaw is its enduring, near-impenetrable strength. Increasingly, London Spy finds that Danny’s sole personality trait worth exploring is his gayness – the show delves into the orgy-friendly group he frequented pre-Alex, and eventually capitalizes on the loneliness that builds with familial and societal rejection. The longer the show goes, the less interesting he becomes. By the end, Danny's a rebel going against the covert intelligence agencies of the world – and with a smile on his face at that. But Whishaw is thoroughly raw and real, an especially notable attribute for a show so mired in artificiality. He conveys Danny’s grief and, more profoundly, shows us his wounds. The series’ one great scene keeps close on its protagonist, as Danny learns that he’s been infected with HIV. It’s a devastating moment, with Whishaw tenderly revealing the depths of Danny’s trauma and pain.
Smith often writes London Spy through that kind of queer lens. Themes of historical exclusion, identity confusion, shame and sexual commitment ripple through its many areas of interest. But the show’s perspective feels antiquated. It’s drab and segregated, humorless and even monolithic – despite taking place in contemporary London, the show might as well take place in the ‘90s, right down to the conspicuous absence of digital communication. Part of that is the point – there’s a moment when patrons of an upscale restaurant stare at the sight of Danny and an old flame holding hands – but like everything else here, it’s a point made too blunt. Through its deconstructions of gayness, mystery and romance alike, London Spy seeks to provoke and stimulate. But its revelations lay flat, unpacked but also inauthentic – just another form of decryption.
Grade: C-