TELEVISION / Breaking the rules of

engagement: Tristan Davies on the first

episode of Linda La Plante's
controversial new drama serial, Civvies
TRISTAN DAVIES

Wednesday, 23 September 1992

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 Soldiers have now joined the massed ranks of professionals - doctors, bankers,
psychiatrists and ad-men (but curiously no dentists) - who are now regularly paraded on
primetime drama. Soldier Soldier began a second series this week with the cheeky chaps
(and chapesses) of the King's Fusiliers about to be posted from Germany to Hong Kong.
And last night, Lynda La Plante's Civvies began a tour of duty with ex-members of the
Parachute Regiment as they took their first clumsy footsteps into civilian life.

It's hard to know which would make the more depressing viewing for the thousands of
soldiers currently waiting for their marching orders as the army reduces in size: Soldier
Soldier as a reminder of what they will be missing - travel, companionship and
windsurfing only occasionally interrupted by the unwelcome attentions of girls or
guerrillas - or Civvies, where Civvy Street is a one-way road to a life of crime. The
Parachute Regiment has already attacked Civvies for its likely 'demoralising' effect on
regular troops, which is to say nothing of the effect that its opening scene may have on
the morale of regular customers of Irish drinking clubs.

Frank Dillon (Jason Isaacs) and his mates celebrated his voluntary discharge from the
Paras with a few pints in the pub followed by a 'bit of Paddy-bashing'. Frank, as the
innocent Irishmen he left groaning in the gutter will confirm, is tough. But he's tender
too. Splattered in blood, he dragged a wounded comrade from the kerbside battlefield to
the safety of his home, where his wife was waiting for him. OK, so he's not much of a
husband, but he is a family man. Before losing consciousness he found time to creep into
his sons' bedroom, pick up an Action Man (to which he bears an uncanny resemblance)
and slip it gently between their sleeping bodies.

Subtle and sophisticated Civvies ain't, but then neither is Frank. Determined to stick to
the straight and narrow in Civvy Street, he nevertheless accepted an invitation from a
fellow ex-Para to join a 'firm' (if you get my drift) of 'insurers'. It began, very slowly, to
dawn on him that, what with having to tape several inches of pounds 10 notes to his
thigh, he was not going to be dealing with Commercial Union. When later he shouted,
'Don't try to tell me this is legit. It's got nothing to do with insurance,' you felt perhaps he
should have mentioned his misgivings before the undercover policeman was beaten to
death.

You also wondered what Frank had to complain about. Civilian life may not be all it's
cracked up to be, but already he was on to a nice little earner in a job that seemed
uniquely suited to his talents and intellect, with more action in a week than the average
soldier sees in a year. He has a loyal wife, a devoted friend prepared to jump to his every
command without a murmur of complaint (well, maybe a murmur, as he's had his voice-
box blown away). Frank seemed well shot of the army, which he thinks is full of softies
anyhow ('They want to change it all. To clean the image up. Yes-men, that's what they
want now, not soldiers . . .').

The director, Karl Francis, kept the action yomping along at such a pace that there was
barely time to take stock of its deficiencies. But they were legion. Civvies has the grainy,
down-earth look of La Plante's Widows and Prime Suspect, but little substance. Corny
lines ('It was my life . . . my lads,' moaned Frank), toe-scenes of bonded masculinity
(Frank snuggling up on the sofa with an old comrade to relive military memories with the
aid of a photo album and Dire Straits' 'Brothers in Arms') and faulty logic (you couldn't
help thinking that if he really wanted the quiet life Frank should get himself down to the
nearest recruiting office and re-enlist) suggest that La Plante's skills as a story-teller have
gone temporarily AWOL.