Cracker (TV series, 1993-1996)

“the best crime TV series ever made”

The two main things that contribute to making the TV series Cracker (about; sample; cast & crew) stand out the way I indicated in the tagline are: the writing (courtesy of Jimmy McGovern), and the main character (played by Robbie Coltrane). Let us therefore examine each of them, in turn.

Before everything else, one should start by clarifying that, albeit a “crime TV series,” or “policier,” Cracker is not a so-called “procedural” (like most US-based crimes TV shows are, for example), in which each episode would be focused on one case – and its resolution. Instead, the “cases” in Cracker take place over several episodes (usually two or three); and yet the series is not even about these “cases,” as “crime cases;” but, instead, it is about human beings (as human beings), and about their very human dramas and trajectories. Furthermore, and even more to the point, the series is actually about Fitz, the main character (played by Robbie Coltrane), and about his relationships with the others. Deeper still, and perhaps even more accurately, the series is about Fitz’s relationship with himself, and with life itself; it is about his self, his soul, his dramas, and his failures. Cracker‘s main subject, therefore, is this extremely likable, intelligent, ironic, yet also vulnerable and, in so many ways, broken – and thus thoroughly human – character. And I guess these are the reasons why I still consider Cracker to be the best crime TV series ever made – because the series is, firstly and foremostly, about human beings, and their human stories: from the main character, to his family and colleagues, to the so-called “criminals.”

One may even say that the cases themselves are not, in fact, about “crimes” – that is, about an “act” that needs “solving,” as if it were a logical puzzle; instead, they are about the human beings who committed (or not) those deeds, and their tragic, but nevertheless human (and thus understandable, and up to a degree even sympathetic) stories. Indeed, these human beings (yes, even “the criminals”) are never reduced to a cliché, to a unidimensional portrait (of being “the criminal,” “the perpetrator”); instead, these people remain what they actually are: human beings. who might have committed something monstrous (or not), but whose all too human trajectory we can understand (wherein understanding does not mean “agreeing with”), exactly because they are human beings, like us. In other words, just like it actually happens in real, everyday life, the “criminals” are simply “human beings who have committed a crime;” which also means that their essential quality, of being “human beings,” and the complexity that is inherent in that, are never lost, no matter what they have done (according to the age-old piece of wisdom, that in human nature, and thus in every human being, there is the potential both for the highest good, and for the most grievous evil).

And thus we can suspect that it is not by chance that the main character, Fitz, is a psychologist – i.e. “a knower of human beings,” and of what moves them, in their inner recesses; because the entire series (like a good novel) is about human beings, and about understanding them, and depicting the strange life trajectories that they (can) take.

Furthermore, there is almost always a spiritual dimension, as well, in these stories; not because of some particular references to the “divine,” but exactly because of the fact that all these people, victims and perpetrators alike, never lose their dignity as human beings with eternally-valid human stories. So credit is due here to Jimmy McGovern, the creator, and main writer, on this series, for being able to maintain this particular perspective on the stories told – a perspective driven by his passion for telling human stories, and supported by his ability to actually see people “as they really are:” that is, complex and multidimensional, and never “simple to solve,” as human beings.

And then we have, as said, the main character, Fitz – and Robbie Coltrane, the actor who might have been born to play this character. In the series, Fitz is a brilliant psychologist, but one who can only be truly brilliant, and can only find his rest and satisfaction, when hired to help the local police on their cases (thus, not in the university classroom, nor in his private practice). Other characteristics of our main character? Addicted to gambling (and with a good bit of smoking and drinking, as well); but sparklingly intelligent, witty, and ironical; cynical, but also possessing a kind of childlike innocence; lovable, even sexy, albeit grossly overweight; and exuding a kind of Humphrey Bogart-like rough charm (Bogie who, not by chance, is one of his idols); overall, an excellent neo-noir character, situated in a story that takes place in a neo-noir (industrial, gray, rainy) Manchester.

And this is also a character who needs to “balance” a large set of complicated relationships. First of all, with his family: his successful and complex wife (played excellently by Barbara Flynn); his age-appropriately annoying, but otherwise smart and caring adolescent son; and his young daughter; all of them characters, and relationships, that are imperfect and complicated – just like in real life, in real families. 

Add to this his “work” and “social” relationships. Fr example, on the police squad, with the chief (played excellently by Christopher Eccleston, and then by Ricky Tomlinson); and with the “old school cop” whom he despises, and who hates his guts in return  (a remarkable Lorcan Cranitch); and the complicated and tempting relationship with DS “Panhandle” – and so on. All of these are complex, multifaceted relationships, with tridimensional, fleshed-out characters – life-like! And we should add to these Fitz’s relationships even with the people whom he has to “examine”, or “interrogate” – the suspects and the accused; and even the victims; all of these complex and fully fleshed characters, with whom he develops intricate, complicated, and imperfect relationships. As said – just like in real like.

And this entire network of relationships is anchored, as said, in a central character – i.e. performance from Robbie Coltrane  – that is so “lived-in” and life-like, that, as said, Coltrane might as well have been born to play this character. Indeed, none of this would work if not rooted in Coltrane’s complex, like-like “fleshing out” of Fitz, the main character. (By the way, at the time Robbie Coltrane was already well-known in the UK, part of that 80s generation of British actors that includes people like Hugh Laurie, Stephen Fry, Emma Thompson, Rowan Atkinson etc. as well. And later on Coltrane will go on to become well-known around the world, as well, by virtue of a role that he will play in an immensely successful fantasy movie – and movie series – from the 2000s.) 

So I mentioned the two main aspects that contribute to making this “the best crime TV series ever made:” the writing, and the complex main character. However, both of these are, at the end of the day, but the instruments that help to achieve what truly sets this series apart: namely the fact that, just like high literature, this series achieves a true immersion in, and depiction of, human existence – and of the human condition.

And perhaps the best way to explain what I mean by this is to compare Cracker with other top-notch crime series, which came close to what this series achieved, but (in my view) never quite did it at the same level as Cracker. The first series (from the same genre) that comes to mind in this sense (of being first and foremost a human story, and a character study) is, unsurprisingly, another British TV show, Prime Suspect, featuring the excellent Helen Mirren. Indeed, that is also a well-done human story, built around a strong central performance from another great character actor. And yet, although I enjoyed that series a lot, I still found that Prime Suspect always fell somewhat short, in comparison with Cracker. Fell short how, or why? Well, in my opinion, by never going as deep into the examination of the human psyche, or self, or soul, as Cracker did. And thus, Prime Suspect, although most admirable, always remained “a bit cold,” a bit, as it were, “on the surface,” for me. To state it differently, one could say that Prime Suspect never seemed to have understood human beings as well, or as deeply, as Jimmy McGovern’s Cracker did.

Or, let’s look at another series with which Cracker might be compared – and this time an American series, The Wire, which to this day is considered by many (in the US) as the best crime TV series ever made (in the US). And one of the reasons why many think so is, I believe, that this was the first successful American crime series that radically departed from the (for me) drab and by-the-numbers formula of the “one episode – one case” procedural; becoming instead a story about “real life, and real people” – about human stories, firstly and foremostly. (Of course, there were other US series that paved the way for The Wire, in that sense, yet without ever going as far as this one did. Thus, in the 70s, there was Hill Street Blues; in the 80s and 90s, NYPD Blue; and let us not forget the earlier show created by the same person, David Simon, who later made The Wire, namely Homicide: Life on the Streets.) I enjoyed and respected The Wire – and particularly the seasons dealing with blue collar Baltimore (season two), with the local newspaper (five), and local politics (four). However, given that I had previously experienced Cracker (and Prime Suspect, by the way), The Wire never hit me with the force and the surprise of novelty, as I think it did for many.

In addition, there was another problem with The Wire, which always stopped it (in my opinion) from being as great as it could have been –a problem which also points to what I consider to be a widespread problem in all of contemporary American cinema (and even art, in general). I am referring here to the fact that the characters and the human stories from The Wire, although going a long way (and probably further than any other US crime series) toward depicting real life, human existence, as they are – never went all the way in that direction, but always remained (or seemed for me to remain) to a certain degree schematic, and somewhat artificial, and at times even forced. And the main reason why this happened, or why it felt that way (for me), is, in my opinion, the “messaging” (political, ideological, or moralistic) that interfered with the actual attempt to depict and understand human beings and human existence as they are. And such unwanted and distorting “political” (or “ideological”, or, as said, moralistic) “interferences” seem to plague not just The Wire, but (I would say) most attempts at “depicting reality” (or presenting the human condition) in American cinema.

But why is that? Why is this such a prevalent problem (as I think it is) in American film – and art, in general? In order to attempt an answer, let us start by saying that, in order for an artistic act to be able to depict reality, the artist himself needs to possess the ability of being open to reality, as it is (because you can not depict what you can not see). This seems like a truism; however, it seems to me that the root of the problem in American cinema (and art in general) is not in the artists’ lack means or abilities in depicting reality; but, instead, and before that, in their ability to engage reality and existence as they are; i.e. that what we have to do with here is a narrowing, or closing, or radical distortion of the very existential ability of engaging and understand reality as it is – even before depicting it. 

It seems to me, thus, that, for whatever reasons (certain legacies of American culture, from puritanism, to the prevalence of the political over the cultural? a distortion and utter degradation of the public discourse, in the last 30 years? the educational system? maybe a combination of these? maybe others?), at this point the ideological and the political have invaded the American consciousness (public and private) to such a degree, that most artists seem almost incapable to even access reality, as it is – let alone to depict it. Instead, what seems to happen (with monotonous repetitiveness) is artists and creators confusing a certain interpretation of reality (i.e. a narrative about reality, and usually the morally privileged narrative) with reality itself. And why does this happen? Why do they cling to the “lens,” or prism, or given interpretation of reality – instead of struggling to open up to reality itself? Well, because it takes significant existential courage – and also a certain comfort with existing, and with existence as it is – to be able to look reality in the eyes. and to dare see what there is, and not what one wants to see – i.e. even if it does not fit one’s narrative (which simply means that reality always turns out to be more complex and multifaceted, than any simplistic – political, ideological, moralistic – narrative about it would have it). And this is not about abandoning the attempt to interpret (one always does, in order to tell a story), or abandoning a moral framework completely (impossible). But it is simply about acknowledging the irreducible complexity and fascinating polisemy of existence; it is about a certain existential humility and deep realism which, as said, takes courage and a certain confidence with existing itself. 

And yet at this point it seems to me that this “existential myopia” (from which results the artistic myopia) is so deeply embedded in the American public consciousness, and culture, and discourse, as to become an almost unconscious, or unintentional feature thereof. In other words, that in many the artists are almost unaware not just of being affected by it, but of the very fact that it exists, and that there is a difference between how one sees, and what one sees. (Although, in this case, myopia has already transformed itself into a kind of blindness.) And yet – and yet! – I am convinced that, human nature being what it is, and having its invincible demands – human beings will always feel a deep pang when living in, or speaking, untruth – even when one does it unawares, or unconsciously. 

In any case, whatever the causes and processes underlying this problem, what results is always an incomplete – or incompletely authentic – immersion into reality (even in the case of artistic acts that consciously try to pursue such a “realistic” depiction and immersion into the human – such as The Wire). And thus it is no wonder that the results are so similar, across the board – that almost every artistic attempt made within this cultural space to depict reality, almost always produces depictions that are at best partial, or slightly inauthentic, in not completely artificial or forced. As said: The Wire went a long, long way toward transforming the genre of the American crime TV show into a story about people, and their stories; one in which the criminals are not just “perps,” but are tri-dimensional human beings, with developed human stories etc. But, in my opinion, it never went far enough – or, I would say, it never went “truthful enough;” truthful both to the human condition, and to what would be the mission of the artistic art itself. And, sadly, I don’t think that this was for lack of trying – but, as said, because of a (by now) almost ingrained myopia.

And yet the need – the human need of all spectators, of all consumers of art in general – was and is and will always remain the same: namely, to hear stories about ourselves, which depict reality and our condition as it is – and which, through that, help us truly understand ourselves, our lives, and our condition. And the reason why a show like The Wire became such a great hit in the US, is exactly because it went farther toward answering this fundamental human need and demand, than any previous American TV shows of the same genre. However, as said: if someone already had the chance of being exposed to a show that truly did what The Wire attempted to do; a show that truly managed to tell a human story with the subtlety, complexity, and multi-layeredness that human stories deserves; I mean, a show like Cracker – well, for such a person it was (frustratingly) obvious that The Wire always fell short of what it initially attempted to do – and from what it could or should have done.

But enough with these comparisons – as this article is not about The Wire, or Prime Suspect, or about any other show; but about Cracker.

So let me conclude this discussion the way I started it, namely by stating that Cracker is (for my money, and to my knowledge) the best crime TV series ever made; and that it is that because of… three things, actually: first, the writing; second, the main character (and actor), but also the the other (tridimensional) characters, and the actors playing them; and, finally, and foremostly, because of the way in which the first two things achieves what all true artistic acts need to achieve: a truthful (and thus compassionate) depiction of the human condition, through the telling of (complex and multidimensional) human stories, which seem to depict the dramas of “real” human beings (even if they are fictional). And all of this is wrapped in the exciting, witty, and stylish package of a British neo-noir policier.