What began promisingly enough three weeks ago came to a horrendously confused and unlamented end last night, full of loose ends, lost ideas and ridiculously disconnected, disjointed events. For most of its run, Modus has been decently put together modern crime story, but its final episode was a classic example of the writers losing control and having no idea how to contrive a fitting climax.
But lets first address ourselves to episode 7, which did at least have some strong elements to it, though these did not include Cliche One. Yes, we all knew they wouldn’t let it lie, the Ings had it off, starting with Inger Johanne all wet and naked in the shower, and Ingvar, all lumped and naked joining her.
Actually, the wetness of the surroundings was inadvertently appropriate, given that Ingvar’s passion couldn’t ignite a match soaked in kerosene, but that’s hardly the point. The Ings got to this completely unwanted consummation via a genuinely creepy moment, as Ingvar delivers Inger Johanne home, starts to drive off after a scene of truly stunning awkwardness in the car and is stopped by panicky shrieks from behind: as we have already seen, Forrester has just been in Inger Johanne’s home, reading her case files, and has chosen to send her a message by leaving behind Stina’s ‘cat’, the toy police car he took from her in episode 1.
There’s a confused feel about the continuity, early on, with Inger Johanne getting a friendly, fit, blonde uniformed cop to take her down to the subway lair where Fanny lived with the late Harwe, and where Forrester has just spray-painted over his graffitti face, and then she and Ingvar summoning shipowner Marcus back from wherever Marianne the collaborator was not taking him, since he ended up not actually going anywhere, so the National Bureau could offer him security. And Inger Johnanne spots his odd, self-contained reaction to mention of a ‘contract-killing’.
Oh, and there’s a left-field scene of a very attractive Swedish secretary telling her boss that Nicolas Rosen won’t be able to pay for the appointment he missed, because he’s dead. Don’t worry, this won’t be a mystery for long.
Meanwhile, back at the plot, we get a couple of brief scenes with the two kids, Stina and Linnea, not allowed to come home from Daddy Isak and his Mum’s country place and being put under surveillance. It has been a serious error on the programme’s part to remove these two from the story: not only is the plot supposed to be partially about how Stina saw Forrester, but the two girls have been the unalloyed, unequivocal gems in this show and it’s rank stupidity not to make more use of them.
But, wait, soulful and pouting Marcus is about to spill the plot to us, or at least besotted husband Rolf. It’s time for it all to come out, and it has the merit of being unforeseen, at least in this quarter. We’ve been expecting Marcus, heir to a homo-hating father, to be the 1 of 1+5, but in reality he’s not even on the board. Marcus revealed that Nicolas was not a possible affair but Marcus’s brother. Half-brother, that is, completely unknown to either until Nicolas’s mother recently died, having spilled the beans as to his true parentage on her death bed. And there’s a Will. Leaving everything to Nicolas. Everything that Marcus and Rolf own,that is.
Oh no, mother, but oh yes. Marcus isn’t the 1+, he’s the guy who took out the contract, whilst in New York, with Nicolas as the 1, who is now troubled by the fact that he didn’t realise there was a + anything to it and now all their friends are dead and he’s responsible for it.
Rolf insists they go straight to the Police, to which Marcus agrees suspiciously quickly (mind you, we’ve seen him start swallowing pills like they were Smarties only to hawk them back up sharpish when little Noah needed a bedtime story). Marcus goes to get his coat. This is the cue for a cutback to Tobias the lawyer (a-hah!) and his shit hot secretary. He’s confirming that the Will is valid so he’d better take it to the Police, and she’s pointing out that as he’s sat on it for three years without even bothering to look at it, it’s going to make him look stupid to produce it now and, given that Nicolas is dead and can’t suffer for it, it’s better for all concerned, here meaning her and Tobias, if some unwitting secretary shredded the document years ago. Bzzzzzzzzz.
All of which diversion is meant to set up the tragic irony of Marcus sticking a gun in his mouth and blowing his brains out.
Is his death enough to end the sequence? With one episode left? I should coco.
So we move into the final episode and all coherence drains away, like the greasy water after washing the pots.
Take the collaborator, Marianne Larsson, who’s busy preparing a get away for Forrester: plane tickets, new passport as Mike Grossman (that couldn’t be a meta-commentary, could it? Perish forfend!), Dallas needs him urgently and Forrester loses his rag,throttles her and disposes of her body in a conveniently unmanned trash compactor. Incidentally, just how and why does a former Swedish cop come to be working with and for the very contract killing organisation her own boss unknowingly hires? You want explanations? Jeez!
Then, in the middle of the night, Stina and her sober little sister, fed up of not even being able to phone Mum (loving parent Inger Johanne cuts off calls rather than speak to the daughters who mean everything to her, and not just because she’s shagging Ingvar again) run away into the forest in the middle of the night, past a police surveillance unit snoring its gobs off, to walk back to Stockholm. Forrester takes off in his car in the night through a forest, a car stops by Stina and Linnea in the forest and they get in, oh lawks!
Don’t worry though, it’s a cheat on the audience, a bit of fake tension set up to try and make the girls relevant to the story but no, they’ve really been picked up by an angel of mercy, a middle-aged woman who plays car games with them, and ferries them round Stockholm until they’re safely lodged with Inger Johanne’s mum.
As for the Ings, they’ve had a lover’s quarrel, and in keeping with the grand passion that Cliche One is, it’s about the case. The Commissioner has called off the Press Conference that was going to make the case public: Fanny’s been picked up, been willfully and pointlessly eccentric whilst having her nails swabbed and scraped and the DNA sent to America has identified Forrester down to the type of underpants he wears, his plane ticket as Grossman has been identified and they’ll take him secretly at the airport. Got all that?
But Inger Johanne is horrified that they’re letting Forrester get away with the last +5 killing. And Ingvar, that personality void, stands convicted of not having the remotest DNA trace of maverick in him; the Commissioner says, and it will be done as the Commissioner says.
I know I took the piss unmercifully about Maverick Mess in Follow the Money but this is bloody ridiculous, and it further undermines the idea of a relationship between the Ings if they can only argue about a professional difference (which is immediately forgotten) and one of them (guess which?) can’t actually manage the energy to argue.
Next comes the revelation that Stina and Linnea are missing. Inger Johanne flies into a passion of fear, runs off in that ridiculously beaten up car that she can only start by hot-wiring. That car has been a waste of space, its only value to the plot being the excuse for Ingvar to give Inger a lift home, and it promptly conks out in the middle of nowhere, for no bloody reason.
Incidentally, Inger Johanne is so frantically grateful that her girls are safe that she can’t be arsed to go and see them. You see, there’s a slam-bang ending coming up, for which our lady star has to be alone, so the show has got to ignore everything about her actual character to force it. This is seriously bad writing, making your characters do alien things, just to force a dramatic climax.
But Forrester’s still got to do his final killing, which is going to be the hot, fit, blonde pregnant actress who’s carrying Rolf’s DNA donation. Forrester practices forcing a car to swerve out of his way on a bridge in the afternoon, and intends to kill Patricia the same way. Except that Inger Johanne phones him up to thank him for his moment of goodness in saving Stina, and to empathise about having an autistic child. At the last moment, in the dark, on the bridge, he swerves.
And then he turns up at Inger Johanne’s pad, intent on killing her instead.
It’s a melodramatic twist, but what can you do? If it’s not Cliche Two, it’s in the top five, and who cares if it’s completely incompatible with the series thus far. But, do you know what? On the one hand, we have a serial killer, an ex-Marine, and outdoorsman, about six foot, powerfully built, solid, good with weapons. And facing him, we have a slim, fragile woman of about 5′ 6″, taken unawares, smashed in the face with two punches, each of which should have incapacitated her, knocked her out, and guess what? She whups him. Of course she does. I mean, he’s a killer, he’s got his hands round her neck, throttling her, like he did Isabella and Marianne, and not only does she get away, but she gets the carving knife off him and stabs him four times in the stomach with it.
And would you believe it, the bastard’s still alive after the Police are called, and Inger Johanne’s not even bruised or dazed or suffered anything but a fetching smear of blood from her nose across her top lip that no-one’s thought to at least clean off, and there’s Ingvar hiding in the shadows, and not even disappearing into them, until his fellow Ing looks up and her face lights up with a look that probably is love but which really ought to be indigestion, because that’s what I got, trying to swallow this. I’m trying to remember the last time I saw a half-decent storyline crash and burn as badly as this one did. It’s on a par with Salamander, except that that was crap throughout.
Modus was based on the fourth of five novels featuring Inger Johanne Vik and a different character completely, by Anne Holt. That gives the producers four more options for a second series. If they are wont to do so, I have three pieces of advice. 1. Drop Ingvar. 2. Do a fucking sight better job of it. and 3. Don’t.