WOTSONTELLY, DEATH OF A FRANCHISE, ITV3

Such days,  
they were the good days.

 But now, c'est fini.

'Astings, mon ami, look 'ow we 'ave come to our end. 
 It is tres ignominious, non?



You an' me, 'Astings, we 'ave  solved the murders tres mysterieuse and we 'ave solved them in the most glorious of your English stately 'omes; 


 we 'ave solved them in the finest of Art Deco buildings - homes, offices, 'otels and even factories; 

 
 we 'ave flown on vintage aircraft from especially refabricated aerodromes, 



 
 

we 'ave sailed on les steamers magnifique.......but this show, 'Astings, 'as not even le open-topped voiture sportif 

or the steaming train, 
  

there ees no hotel grand, not even, mon ami, the sort of coaching inn suitable for the chief Inspector Japp to recline in, with his smelly socks and his pork pies,   thees show, eet ees, 'ow you say, bucket scrapings....

Good Lord Poirot, do you really think so??? 
And it's barrel, by the way.

Comment?

Barrels, barrel scrapings, not bucket scrapings.

Oui, d'accord, bucket scrapings. Le metaphore Anglaise, eet is a mystery to Poirot an' ees leetle grey cells.  But no matter. Regardez,  bien, mon cher ami, I am in the accursed wheeling chair.  


 Moi, the great  'Ercule, in this episode finale I am to be pushed around as though I were le sack of pommes de terre......


Spuds, Poirot, sack of spuds.....



Oui, d'accord, spuds, eet is the staple diet of you English. You boil them up until they are inedible, fit only for the bin of swill and then you pulp them up with the watery milk and the margarine so foul  and then slop them on plates an' expect persons of le refinement gastronomique to eat the wretched mess....Poirot would not feed it to le petit chien.


I say, Poirot. I rather think that Bangers'n'Mash is a jolly good tuck-in...

A jolly good tuck-in????? The brains and foreskins and the lips and eyelods  of le cochon, all minc-ed up an' wrapped up in ees intestinal tract and then incinerated in a blackened frying pan and placed, just-so, on top of le spuds mashee?  Thees ees what you call le jolly good tuck-in?  'Astings, mon ami, you are, 'ow you say, a real teat.....


Treat, Poirot, a real treat...

Exactement.  But look, look at thees sheethole in which we must act, eet ees like the penitentiary, non? And freezing.  And le furniture, eet looks to 'ave been made from the orange box an' the tea chestings,  Mon Dieu, 'Astings,  the 'ole place,  it is like the jumbling sale of l'Armie Salvationique. An' the lights, 'Astings.....

What's wrong with the lights, old man...?


What's wrong with the lights, you ask of Poirot?  What's wrong with them?  They do not light, that is what is wrong with them,  they are dim, 'Astings, rather like your good self, mon pauvre cher ami,  they do not cast any light.  The servants, they should be instructed, most firmly, to light the candles or even the flaming brands;  the electricity in this 'ouse it is the big joke, n'est ce pas? Is generated, peut etre, by the hamster or the gerbil, on the treading mill?   That actors of our calibre, our experience and stature, that we should stumble about in the dark, in this, our last episode, eet is infamy.  What 'as 'appened to the budget, these past four episodes; instead of glorious, brilliantly-lit interieurs and sunny locations we 'ave been plunged into the long night of cheap franchise-milking.  We may as well 'ave made the shows down on the site most dilapidee of  la Rue Coronation or Les Eastenders.


Good Lord, Poirot, that's a bit harsh......

And the company, 'Astings, l'ensemble, who are these nincompoopings,  in my long career - before I was le detectif indefatigable et magnifique I acted, you know, 'Astings, with your Royal Shakespeare Company among the luvvies from, 'ow you say, the Top Door..... 


Drawer, Poirot, drawer...

Oui, merci, le top door.....and I was in filmes propre, in the cinema  among fine screen actors.  But this cast?  Poirot 'as never seen or heard of them, apart from one - Madam Leach, 'oo, let us make the face at it, is no Dame Judi Dench - they ave all been carefully selected from les societies most dismal of amateur dramatistes, the very highest they should have aimed is to play the role of some 'ousewife adultereuse, in le Farme Emmerdale or a police constable in the unspeakable Law'n'Order UK with the actor turned quizmaster, the ghastly et tres terrible  Bradley Wotsisname. 



 These people, this cast, 


they  do not belong, 'Astings, in the same shot as you and I.  
Rememberez vous, mon ami, 'ow we used to 'ave l'ensemble tres precise and accomplished, a quartet most versatile whilst being at the same time most reassuring;
 


  there was yourself, the tres obedient Miss Leh-mon, the chief inspecteur Clodhopper and last but not lost, myself, the greatest detective televisual in history.

Eef money ees so important, the producers should have set us amongst proper corpses, borrowed, for a small fee, from the local undergravers....

Takers, Poirot.....

Takers, 'Astings, of what do you speak, what is this takers?


Under Takers, Poirot, old man, undertakers,  that's what we call them, not undergravers.

Merde, 'Astings, it is all the same. Mistreating les cadavers and stealing from the bereaved, the entire filthy charade masked with the clothing sombre and the sympathy synthetique.  But please not to endlessly correct Poirot,  you know perfectly well of what I speak.  And if you continue so to do we will not finish the show, about which I 'ave sold an article to the great journal, le Daily Filth, and you, mon ami, will find that your work may dry up, even in  such rubbish as the series most execrable, M'sieu Sharp, where you play the Duke of Wellingtons

  

 alongside the actor  made of woods, le boeufcake blonde, M'sieu Sean Beans..... Non, 'Astings, interrupt me not  

Your time, as 'Astings, 'Astings, it has been, n'est ce pas, the most rewarding of your career;  you 'ave had the work most regular and lucratif.  For twenty-five years you have played the loyal idiot and now it is all come to dust.  We are filming in a freezing ruin, acting with stiffs,  and Poirot must now go and do his deathbed scene, leaving you, ma cher ami, scratching your brains of lard and probably trying to make  a living doing the over-voices for M'sieu TESCO, or entering the jungle celebree avec les politicians de merde, feasting on the dung beetles and sleeping among vermin, if Mademoselle Dorries will permit.      

 

I tell to you. 'Astings, Je suis desolee.  That our career should end in death and darkness, you to be unemployed and me, Poirot, to tour the chatting shows for the rest of my days....well. what can I say,  is, vraiment, as mr ishmael say to me many times, There is no business like the showbusiness.

And now,  mes amis, mes audiences, adieu,

  

The great one, il est mort.

The late David Suchet is available for a small very large fee for after-dinner, cruise-ship and televison speaking engagements.

I loved Poirot, I came to love it, the meticulous lavishness of the sets,  the locations,  the props, the costumes, the vehicles, the make-up, everything was a fantastical, glorious, showy, art deco collage, exquisitely filmed and fabulously over-acted by all concerned, especially by Suchet.

The last four episodes, however,  were as depressing as could be, drab, dark and ominous; maybe a different production team, maybe a directorial impulse towards the noire, maybe, as Poirot says, above, a final greedy visit to the milch cow. I wish I hadn't seen them.