Inspired by Real Events: The Serpent, The Investigation, and true crime drama

serpent investigation review tahar rahim charles sobrahj jenna coleman tobias lindholm kim wall borgen netflix

“No-one’s said or written a word about him in years. Someone so vain must hate that. He pulls a stunt like this, and the world remembers his name.”

The Serpent, Episode 8

“Maybe it’s because the more civilised we become, the greater is our need to stare into the darkness.”

The Investigation, Episode 6

The Serpent and The Investigation each represent different extremes for true crime fiction. The former, a co-production between BBC One and Netflix, dramatises a series of murders committed by Charles Sobrahj in Southeast Asia during the 1970s; the latter, a piece of Nordic noir broadcast by BBC Four and HBO, depicts the police investigation into the 2017 murder of journalist Kim Wall. They make for interesting comparisons to one another – in part simply for being released in tandem, but largely for all the ways in which each stands as a rejection of the other.  Where The Serpent (named for its lead) places a charismatic killer at its centre, The Investigation (named for its process) refuses to feature or even name Kim Wall’s murderer, instead focusing solely on the slow and painstaking work leading to his eventual conviction.

On an immediate level, at least, it’s obvious why The Investigation’s approach holds an appeal. There’s always a certain tension inherent to any true crime project, be it documentary or dramatization – an underlying ethical murkiness, the discomfort that comes from treating real trauma and suffering as a type of entertainment. Arguably dramatization is worse: there’s no academic remove, no pretence made that this might be on some level informative or educational. Instead it’s lurid, even voyeuristic; it’s perhaps a little simplistic to suggest that true crime drama in the vein of The Serpent glorify the killers they centre, but it’s not that simplistic. Actors are hailed for their transformations, glowing profiles are written about how they confronted a darkness within themselves to evoke whichever celebrity murderer they’ve been tasked with portraying – there’s an assumed prestige to it all, a glitz and glamour (look at how much money was clearly spent on The Serpent, look at its prime-time BBC One New Year’s Day slot) that cuts against the inherent griminess that can’t help but pervade. That’s very much the model The Serpent operates in, seemingly almost despite itself: the non-linear structure, skipping back and forth between different perspectives on Sobrahj, is a clever conceit that could offer a route to interrogate his crimes without granting him protagonist status – but the series always returns to Tahar Rahim as Sobrahj, never quite able to break its gaze, forthright about who and what it finds most compelling about this story.

Watching The Investigation¸ the difference is palpable. There’s no attention-grabbing stunt casting, no recognisable actor made to look eerily (or vaguely) similar to the murderer – who is, pointedly, only ever referred to here as “the accused” – it’s all decidedly, pointedly low-key. Tobias Lindholm, who wrote and directed all six episodes, said he wanted to tell “a different kind of story here, not just another tale of a “fascinating” man who killed a woman […] a story where we didn’t even need to name the perpetrator. The story was simply not about him”. The Investigation is quiet and careful, as methodical in its writing as the process it depicts, and it’d be difficult to seriously argue that it’s particularly sensationalist or sleazy – compared to The Serpent, it’s aseptic. In lieu of focusing on the suspect, or depicting the crime itself in any detail, Lindholm centres the people affected (or tries to, at least).

the investigation tobias lindholm soren malling pilou ashbaek kim wall hbo bbc two efterforskningen

Immediately, obviously, The Investigation seems more respectful – more ethical – than The Serpent. Certainly, it’s clear that Sobrahj is the star of The Serpent, but that’s not the real contrast between them. They’re both true crime fiction, but they’re operating in different modes: The Investigation is a procedural, but The Serpent is a thriller, its dramatic engine predicated entirely on tension and suspense. Cliffhangers are built around capture and escape, the camera lingers on violent images; whatever else The Serpent might be, it’s not trying to be about Sobrahj’s victims in the same way The Investigation aims to be. You get the sense it almost was, or almost could’ve been, about Marie-Andrée Leclerc (Jenna Coleman) and Herman Knippenberg (Billy Howle) primarily, with Sobrahj a more marginal figure, but it’s as though the fascination with the eponymous killer was too great to ever really leave him. In turn, there’s something that feels almost exploitative about it, as is so often the case with true crime drama.

However, there’s an argument to be made that The Serpent at least is aware of what it is and honest about it, while that The Investigation – for all the praise its received – isn’t, in fact, quite so ethical as it seems. The Investigation doesn’t name Kim Wall’s murderer, quite pointedly so, but it strains to do so: it feels artificial. Worse, it almost feels as though the series is still mythologising him, because it doesn’t eschew the sort of cheap psychoanalysis that typifies the most lurid true crime – the suspect is offscreen, but talk of his serenity, of his temper, of his sex life, doled out via interviews with his friends and colleagues, only serves to position him as a figure of intrigue. (Perhaps notably, most discussion of the series has still focused on the killer, with some reviews affording more detail to describing the brutal crime than engaging with the show itself.) It’s as though The Investigation doesn’t believe in its own premise, leaving that central conceit feeling less like an innovation of the form and more like a marketing gimmick.

More to the point, it’s not like The Investigation isn’t still fundamentally a piece of entertainment built on a trauma. First and foremost, it’s a crime procedural: it’s not really a show about Kim Wall’s parents, who are supporting characters at best, their emotional lives an afterthought in comparison to the painstaking, glacial investigative work that makes up most of the series. Notably, the series approaches Wall’s parents by contrasting them with lead detective Jens Møller (Søren Molling, previously of The Killing and Borgen), framing their loss in terms of his strained home life – which is, reading between the lines, seemingly an invention on part of Tobias Lindholm. (In those moments, The Investigation resembles nothing more than a string of ITV true crime dramas, at this point almost a subgenre unto themselves, which all seem to be made with the same script.) That clichéd dysfunction is the weakest part of the series, and if the only way the series can engage with grief and trauma is through such tired, overwrought stereotypes, can it actually be said to be engaging at all?

The Serpent is the better piece of television, to be clear. It’s not perfect – the first half of the series struggles with glacial pacing, and its non-linear structure is presented in a needlessly confusing fashion that takes a while to get used to – but it’s more engaging than The Investigation ever manages to be, an actual drama series rather than an extended intellectual exercise. The series is well cast (much will be said about Coleman, Howle, and Rahim, and with good reason, but even the supporting roles impress, Amesh Edireweera in particular proving magnetic throughout) and it remains, in spite of itself, very watchable. There’s something to be said, too, for its story of an increasingly desperate, low-level civil servant investigating crimes the local law enforcement had been happy to ignore; it’s a stark contrast from the explicitly pro-policing approach taken by The Investigation. (Which isn’t to suggest that The Serpent is, for lack of a better word, ‘unproblematic’ – the patina of orientalism to its depiction of Southeast Asia makes that clear enough – merely that it offers a more complicated narrative than crime drama tends to, and to note that The Investigation doesn’t necessarily have the straightforward moral clarity it purports to.)

What’s striking about both series, though, and it’s something they share, is the sense that they’re both a little uncomfortable in themselves. The Investigation makes a laughable gesture towards psychoanalysing its audience, suggesting that if one is too happy or secure, they’re drawn to the catharsis of true crime – almost looking to the camera to insist it really is okay to treat a recent murder as ballast for television schedules, in fact not just okay but necessary, as though struck by the sudden insecurity that it might not be enough to just avoid naming the killer. There’s no attempt to understand that on a deeper level, to engage with the sensationalist journalism that drove interest in that particular crime: in the end, The Investigation proves superficial. Meanwhile, The Serpent ends by condemning the attention given to Sobrahj, insisting that he was doing it all for attention – all seemingly without noticing the irony of that insight being offered by this show.

That discomfort raises the question, ultimately, why either series actually exists. There’s a sense that each one stumbles around and just misses being a better programme: if they’d opted to be about something more than just one man (or his absence), if The Investigation put more emphasis on a media circus it only briefly acknowledged and if The Serpent had delved more closely, and more delicately, into the conditions that allowed Sobrahj to thrive. True crime is best when it uses its real-life subject as a lens to interrogate a much broader set of themes – something like The Assassination of Gianni Versace is surely the benchmark here (as well as being one of the few such series that could make a genuine, and convincing, case that it centres the victims). As it is, though, The Serpent and The Investigation taken together don’t just represent different extremes of the true crime genre, but are also a stark demonstration of its limits.

You can find more of my writing about television here, and follow me on twitter @morelandwriter. If you enjoyed this article – or if you didn’t – please consider leaving a tip on ko-fi.

LFF Review | Druk / Another Round (2020)

druk another round mads mikkelsen thomas vinterberg tobias lindholm what a life scarlet pleasure lff review

You must accept yourself as fallible in order to love others and life.

Druk (or Another Round, to give it its English title) is a very stylish movie. There’s a sleek, glossy feel to it all, and at its best, the film is absolutely buzzing with energy: it’s going to be remembered, more than anything else, for a handful of scenes as it opened and closed, its characters dancing and laughing and celebrating together. In those moments, there’s a real sense of vitality, even urgency, to it – Thomas Vinterberg’s direction isn’t just lively but frenetic, constantly moving, dynamic, bursting with passion.

That’s not to say that Druk is always quite so heightened, though: in fact, those scenes are only as striking as they are because they stand in such contrast to the rest of the film. Vinterberg’s script (written with collaborator Tobias Lindholm) is full of carefully handled tonal shifts, moments when such excessive drinking becomes fraught with danger, not with possibility. Druk captures exhaustion as well as it does ecstasy – it’s as much about the dull monotony of a passive life as it is those moments of zeal and enthusiasm that puncture it. By the same token, when the glitz and glamour of newfound confidence gives way to something altogether more squalid, Druk handles that well too, the film taking on a certain melancholy air whenever it pauses to catch a breath.

The film is anchored by a strong performance by Mads Mikkelsen – here clearly the lead, Druk much more interested in his character rather than any particular effort to build an ensemble. As ever, Mikkelsen shines, flawlessly inhabiting that creaking, tired ennui moving to careless abandon that defines his character, all underscored by an increasingly ragged desperation for a better way to live. It’s his final scene, though, that proves most memorable – an extended dance sequence, Mikkelsen lithe and nimble, one last note of joy for the film to end on. With Vinterberg’s direction at its most kinetic, and set to the film’s song What a Life, it’s not just the most memorable part of Mikkelsen’s performance, but of Druk as a whole too – the single most stylish scene in an already very stylish movie.

druk another round mads mikkelsen thomas bo larsen magnus millang lars ranthe vinterberg danish swedish nordisk alcohol

Nonetheless, while Druk is undeniably sleek, there’s a sense that perhaps it’s a case of style over substance – underneath the gloss and the sheen, it’s a much less compelling and thoughtful film than it appears to be.

It likely doesn’t qualify as a spoiler to reveal that four teachers choosing to drink to excess does not, ultimately, go very well for them. Druk is a story of a rise and a fall; their ostensibly academic study into psychologist Finn Skarderud’s theory that people should drink continually to maintain a certain level of blood alcohol content quickly turns into outright alcoholism. Renewed vigour in their personal and professional lives is soon replaced by maudlin lethargy and a sudden reversal of fortunes; it plays oddly, though, like a remarkably niche morality tale. (Surely no one else has actually tried this? Even Skarderud later denounced the theory, claiming to have been misunderstood.) It’s not clear exactly what Druk is getting at, or what the point of it all is – whether it’s a critique of Danish drinking culture or a fairly roundabout, heavily caveated celebration.

Part of this is that, for all Vinterberg’s willingness to commit wholeheartedly to individual scenes of drunken excess, the script itself is surprisingly cautious. It’d be unreasonable, yes, to expect the film to make a sweeping, definitive statement about alcohol use (and abuse) – and any such statement would likely be a very trite one. But while the direction is perfectly pitched, the balance of the script is off – too bogged down in the specifics of the drinking, losing sight of the character study, attempts at nuance instead coming across as equivocating. (One teacher encourages a student to drink before an exam, surely a signifier that they’d gone too far, but… it does actually seem to help the student?) Meanwhile, the opening act feels sparse and pared back, almost in a hurry to start drinking, and the eventual downfall comes too quickly: whatever Druk is getting at, whether at particular point or even a general theme, is sketched too lightly to make much impact.

Perhaps Druk would benefit from a repeat viewing – or another round, if you will – to more fully appreciate exactly what it’s going for. Certainly, there’s enough going on that revisiting the film would be rewarding: Druk is full of strong scenes and individually very impressive moments, each of which make strong impressions on their own terms. The film as a whole doesn’t quite manage to cohere, though, leaving Druk feeling rather less than the sum of its parts.

Related:

London Film Festival 2020 reviews

You can find more of my writing about film here, and follow me on twitter @morelandwriter. If you enjoyed this review – or if you didn’t – please consider leaving a tip on ko-fi.