Every scene is washed out, cool and slow, interiors are sparse and stylish, wine plops into glasses and couches are smooth and leathery. Healthy men smoke in secret and think hard. Nobody dares mention words like design or IKEA or smorgasbord. None of that would be appropriate. There are regular murders going on but few real tears, emotions are cranked down and not what they are cracked up to be; let’s play on as everything slows down because we’re living some strange half life where everything is a drama and everyone is a suspect but nobody did it.
You wonder who would take on a Scandinavian police job, long hours, no recognition, regular humiliation and the pleasure of being blanked or ignored on a regular basis. Meanwhile a few streets away out in the frozen night time some tainted secret missions and trysts are rolling out on a determined and inevitable path of self destruction. Everybody has a sexual quirk or a deep secret and everybody, in all their clipped tones and glib sub titled language is a suspect for some kind of criminal activity, even the good guys.
Meanwhile out on the empty roads an olive Porsche 911 (or a 912 if what they say on the forums is true) roars like a filtered and filleted sacrificial lamb and becomes a cult internet object in the process. It’s the automotive manifestation of mystery syndrome envy and calculation, see the glazed look behind those blank headlight eyes. A fantasy roadrunner piece that will live long after the killer is caught and it's only as old as it’s driver. Got to watch the next three episodes before Saturday.
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