The truth is, I wasn’t ready to like Down Cemetery Road.
That’s because I am always wary of lightning when it attempts to strike twice. We already have a hit and a treasure in Slow Horses, which is based on the work of Mick Herron. And I am already in love with the cynicism and grudging loyalty of Slow Horses’ boorish MI5 black sheep Jackson Lamb.
Down Cemetery Road, on Apple TV, is based on Herron’s debut novel and features Emma Thompson as the cynical and grudgingly loyal Zoë Boehm, a private investigator who uncovers a conspiracy when the wrong woman walks into her husband’s office in Oxford.
My initial thought upon reading the promotional materials was, “This is going to go tits up.”
And it does go tits up. And by that, I mean the plot. Down Cemetery Road is a twisted and darkly funny tale of what happens when one cover-up leads to another cover-up leads to another cover-up and so on.
It has a sense of humor, but there is also a deep sadness in this series, which muses on social disconnection as much as it muses on the practicalities of hiring decent enough hit men if you happen to work for the UK’s Ministry of Defence.
And while it’s easy to get hooked on the proceedings, the writers like their characters enough to make you feel for them.
With that out of the way, I am also wary of television writing that attempts to explore female empowerment within the confines of a conspiracy thriller. The writing too often ends up unrealistic, serving up mid-grade video game-like characters who kick far too much ass than your standard woman can or cares to.
But Emma Thompson’s Zoë can be just as fragile as she can be cunning and furious; she is a character who makes mistakes and suffers for it, and learns from it. As much as you cheer for her you can also see her in that one mouthy aunt you have, or in that one teacher in high school who told you to get over yourself and get your ass in gear and thus saved your semester.
This isn’t to say that I always need my conspiracy thriller characters to be relatable – it’s just nice when they are still portrayed as human.
It helps that Zoë has a wonderful foil in Ruth Wilson’s Sarah Tucker, the aforementioned wrong woman who shows up at an Oxford private investigations office to turn everyone’s lives upside down. Sarah is a talented art restorer who puts up with equal amounts of shit at work and at home.
Her husband is a social climbing jerk-off. Her friends are weird. Her sense of self is muddled. Her life is missing a spark, and then the neighbor’s house literally blows up and their child goes missing. Be careful what you wish for, as they say.
Sarah starts looking into the explosion and the strange case of the missing child because she is obviously lonely and in pain, and wanting to fix that by fixing someone else’s pain. At first, Zoë is very unimpressed, as she has every right to be.
But the plot thickens and the mood darkens as Sarah encounters fierce resistance from a bunch of people who are extremely invested in keeping the real cause of the explosion hidden. It doesn’t help (or maybe it does) that a handsome and foreboding stranger (the terrific Nathan Stewarrt-Jarrett) appears to be haunting Sarah’s steps.
As the screws tighten on the plot, we begin to realize that Sarah’s quest, however misbegotten, must be finished at all costs, and she can’t finish it without Zoë. Sometimes, the most innocuous questions can open up a portal to hell. And when you’re going through hell, you keep going.
I’ve seen it written that Zoë in particular is a kind of feminist role model. I really don’t see her that way. I do see her as a terrific and vulnerable and hilarious character, as frustrating and clever as Jackson Lamb, minus the awful hygiene. Not every boldly written woman is meant to be a statement on feminism. Sometimes, boldly written women are just exciting to watch.
The series’ finale is still a few weeks away, and while I’m not sure what happens next, I can confidently tell you that I’m invested. Occasionally, lightning does strike twice.