So, Death in Paradise has harrumphed its way to another series finale. DI Richard Poole (Ben Miller) was in a grumpier mood than usual by its closing episode, contending with Fidel’s distraction as he waits results of his Sergeant’s exam, and Dwayne, as ever, diverted by the laydeez.
Sara Martins’s saintly (think, patience of) presence as his sidekick Camille Bordey goes on being underappreciated, though she continues treating Richard like a rare specimen to be protected from life’s vagaries. If Camille's hoping for something else, she's one hell of an optimist, even by Francophone standards. Even the local voodoo love fest couldn't stir a need for contacts of a closer kind in Richard, content as he is with his pet lizard Harry, and a vaguely remembered fondness for Antiques Roadshow and Fiona Bruce.
Poole has to come up with the occasional improvisation, the latest being his use of wart cream for fingerprinting
It’s the closing episode, so the “will he? won’t he?” question is back. Meaning, will Richard leave the Caribbean island paradise of Saint-Marie that fate sent him to police, despite an inability to dress down from suit and tie, and what seems a pathological aversion to sand? Clinching the latest case in which another dodgy white male gets his not very grisly come-uppance from someone in his immediate circle, Poole escorts one of the perpetrators back to Britain to assist investigations in a fraud case (the only hint of funny money doings down in this part of the world).
That leaves his trio of island collaborators wondering what their Richard might be getting up to back home in the (welcome) cold of Blighty. They picture him enjoying a cup of tea with fish and chips, finishing the crossword. You only need to lob in an old lady (preferably a part-time sleuth herself) riding off to church on that proverbial bicycle to complete the bizarre sub-Orwellian vision of Britain that defines Poole’s character. He's the cop with the comedy, whose precursors in the latter field surely number Reginald Perrin (not least sartorially; Poole’s working dress for the beach pictured below right), Rowan Atkinson (whose sidekick Miller played in Johnny English), and most of all John Cleese, whose exasperated voice rings out strongest here.
The detective work is pretty template and old fashioned, with denouements delivered to assembled suspects bang on the 45-minute mark. Forensics being notable by their absence on Saint-Marie, Poole has to come up with the occasional improvisation, the latest being his use of wart cream - there goes the island's stock for the year? - for some urgent fingerprinting. That leaves the comedy. Best line this series? Poole’s reply when asked who might murder a nun: “Anyone who’d ever seen The Sound of Music more than once”. Enough to make a Python purr? Just.
News that another series has been commissioned broke earlier this month, so fans (all eight million of them, according to the viewing figures for series two’s opener) know by now that Poole will be back. Will it be another eight episodes of the same old stodge, or can new horizons open up for this parody of an Englishman abroad? Has BBC Drama gone to sleep?