There are times in a TV critic’s life when a series to which they are assigned inspires them to write reams of text, sometimes because said series is good, sometimes because it’s bad. Then there is what I like to call critic purgatory, when the series inspires nothing. Neither impressive nor dreadful, the series is adrift in the doldrums of artistry. If they handed out Emmys for dull television, then I am certain “Hostage,” a limited British series now airing on Netflix, would make a clean sweep.
The bromidic particulars: British Prime Minister Abigail Dalton (Suranne Jones) is dealing with the National Health Service’s critical shortage of cancer drugs when she learns her doctor husband, Alex Anderson (Ashley Thomas), has been kidnapped in French Guyana while working with Doctors Without Borders. The kidnappers issue a demand: either Dalton resigns from her post, or her husband and his colleagues will die. By a strange coincidence, Dalton is attending a summit with French President Vivienne Toussaint (Julie Delpy) on that very day!
Though sympathetic to Dalton’s agony, Madame la Présidente wrangles the situation to her advantage, agreeing to have French forces rescue Anderson in exchange for some eyebrow-raising concessions. But just as the rescue operation is scheduled to begin, Toussaint is blackmailed with a damning video, and she aborts the mission. Both she and Dalton must navigate a deadlock, in which they weigh family, country, and personal ambition against one another. There is plenty more going on, but embargoes prevent me from discussing any of it, because the plot details of a Netflix series must be protected like the details of nuclear treaties, even though it will be on the service by the time you read this review.
Actor Anna Chancellor once said that, unlike, say, Dame Judi Dench, she can’t “turn a piece of poo into a silk purse.” That’s not to say the cast of “Hostage” doesn’t try. There’s a spiky vulnerability in Delpy’s otherwise confident demeanor that could have blossomed into something more interesting, and Jones, too, tries to balance Dalton’s desperation with a steely exterior. It simply does not work because the characters lack the time or room to develop. Lucian Msamati (who gave it his all as Cardinal Adeyemi in “Conclave”) does try to liven up the proceedings as Kofi Adomako, Dalton’s chief adviser, with a certain slithering quality to his body language that could imply either treachery or loyalty. I know Ashley Thomas is capable of more (he had a damn good time playing a steampunk lawyer in “Great Expectations”), but all he gets to do here is rage and cry.
Visually, “Hostage” looks exactly like “Bodyguard” or “The Diplomat,” Netflix’s other series involving powerful women and complex choices. (Sometimes these similarities border on the literal, as Jones and “Bodyguard” lead Keeley Hawes could pass for twins.) The cinematography lacks even the barest hint of flair or style; the dialogue, direction, and editing are equally ordinary. Creator Matt Charman, who penned all five episodes, is an Oscar-nominated screenwriter (“Bridge of Spies”), but whatever talent he has is not present here. One wonders why political dramas are afraid to take any formal risks.
It is not a complete wash, however. The only member of the crew who tried to have any fun is costume designer Annie Hardinge. She immediately differentiates Toussaint and Dalton, dressing the former in bold colors and long, ornate earrings, while the latter is dressed in conservative prints and silhouettes and wears small, circular earrings. Skilled directors and writers could use these touches to further bolster the writing, especially when a show like “Hostage” needs so much help to disguise its consistent flaws. In the end, it’s a bland series that, to borrow a phrase from “The Simpsons,” tried nothing and is all out of ideas.
Three out of five episodes screened for review. Now on Netflix.
