Ghosts from the Past

The Chase

The footsteps fall in salvos, their strikes torpedo through the narrow, tube-like alleys. The doppler of voices is lost in the clash of echoes. I can't make sense of the words, but they're excited. And they're gaining.

I cut into the next passage narrowly skirting a cart. The adobe walls reveal nothing. There! Stairs up. I ascend but only for a moment. Foiled. The stairs truncate into an unplanned ceiling. The voices are closer now. They are coming.

I plunge deeper into the depths of the labyrinth. Hark! The call to prayer. I look up seeking the minaret. Foiled again. The alley's vaulted ceiling masks the mosque's tower. I quicken my pace and listen intently. Where was the mosque? Near Al Bab - the gate! I can make it out. A beam of light glances off a perpendicular wall behind me. No time left.

If I run, they'll hear me for sure. If I walk, they'll catch up. I am being swallowed up and digested by the Casbah. I have the microdots. One more turn. One more turn. I have the information, if only I -

The Circus

If only I could cut to the chase and get down to the spy business. Therein lies the crux of this article. The afore-pictured TV series, while enjoyable, proffer the garnish as the pith of the cocktail, content in the content of their well drinks. Put another way:

What do Alias and Homeland have in common? Ok, true - they both feature emotionally unstable female protagonists. I shan’t weep for their inevitable terminations (the programs, I mean, not the talent). What about 24 and The Americans? Dark and gritty? Yeah, sure, but so is ostriching on the beach for forty-two minutes plus commercial breaks.

The answer is bloat. All of the aforementioned shows overstay their welcome because somewhere in the midst of it all they have accumulated so many lime wedges and Tiki umbrellas that it is nigh impossible to get a sip of the good stuff, the substance.

I wish not to disparage any reader's tastes, so take my sourness with a grain of salt and have a margarita. My intention is to point out a trend I find disconcerting in a genre I hold as near to my heart as cultural iconography presents Bond with his Walther PPK.

Spies hold a special status (besides the license to kill) in genre-blending cinematics. A spy is afforded the creative space to be a sleuth, an action hero, an intellectual, an everyman's hero, a master thief, a debonair philanderer. And if none of that suits, then the spy merely changes disguises!

The versatility of the spy genre has propelled it from the silver screen to the small screen. From James Bond and Jason Bourne to Jack Bauer and Jack Bristow (a monogrammatic conspiracy best left to the internet wizards). Without the duration restrictions endemic of Hollywood films, I’m left reeling halfway through these modern spy series wondering if more booze will quell the angst literally beaming out of my home entertainment system and bludgeoning me with yet another B-story.

Instead of creating a series where mystery, thrill and action seamlessly weave into the story, these modern renditions inject hyper-emotional drama and side plots - often with stakes akin to fetch quests. These spies gather families, jilted lovers, drug abusing friends, love triangles and uncertain backstories instead of intelligence information. The beautiful tapestry of a tightly woven story whip zooms onto the fraying threads at the edges as the raconteur-in-chief gropes for one more reason for one more season. One more payoff for his one more payday.

Even if you do enjoy all those shows I mentioned, there's no harm in stepping back from the explosive dramatics and ever-increasing grandiosity of set pieces. Sometimes small stories do soulful good. After all, most of us spend our days as tiny cogs in a massive machine. Why pick role models who - on a slow day - avert armageddon with one hand while emergency landing a flying orphanage right outside of an infertility clinic with the other? I’m willing to suspend my disbelief up to a point, but, realistically, how’s the spy going to sip a Rum Collins in that scenario? Pulls me right out of the episode.

The Handler

My first recommendation is a late 1970s British series, The Sandbaggers. Like a good spy, it's difficult to find and worth its salt.

The schtick: Join Neil Burnside, portrayed by Roy Marsden, as he maneuvers the depths of the British bureaucratic labyrinth - the faceless antagonist foiling his attempts to effectively employ the elite Sandbaggers of the SIS, Special Intelligence Service (MI6). The series, only 20 episodes in total, transports the viewer through the corridors and stuffy government offices of 1970-80s Great Britain. Fans of police procedurals will delight in the policy procedural of The Sandbaggers. When the free world is imperiled however, put down the snifter and pick up on the fantastic attention to detail.

Why the recommendation: The Sandbaggers invokes the rule of realism in all things, which includes a fair deal of time in mission planning. Far from being a detractor, the tight shot reverse-shot office scenes hearken to the Cold War claustrophobia experienced by intelligence professionals of the time. The cramped, congested offices remind the viewer of how it must have felt to be staring down the barrel of an intercontinental ballistic missile silo. That squelching black pit that ends in a bright light.

The use of real film - the only option of the era - aids in the confined feel. The grainy footage and unscrubbed audio tracks enhance, rather than draw away from, the viewing experience. It's ineffably more immersive.

Beyond aesthetics, the series carefully injects plausible tradecraft and accurate parlance of the day. Where that level of realism transcends that of The Americans is evident in the context of its creation. The Americans is a period piece; The Sandbaggers is a piece made during the period. With rebuke intended, Keri Russell delivers every line safe in the knowledge that NATO and the West won. She is subconsciously swayed by the knowledge of that reality's finale. Roy Marsden isn't acting. In 1978, the newsreel of defections and assassinations followed the airing of new episodes. The gravity added from that context is palpable and appreciable.

The second prong stabbing at the heart of The Sandbaggers points to the creator of the series, Ian Mackintosh. A veteran of Royal Navy intelligence, Mackintosh displays his insider knowledge to the credit of the series. Unlike modern series which try to develop a "street cred" by inundating every scene with Easter eggs and throwaway lines, The Sandbaggers shows restraint. Office politics and funding conflicts rather than car chases and shootouts. Limiting excesses therefore elevates the action. The stakes matter.

And if that's not enough, The Sandbaggers has its own lore to wrinkle the brow: Ian Mackintosh disappeared after his private plane went missing from radar somewhere over the Canadian/Alaskan wilds. So while the show abruptly ended - not happy, no cliffhanger, nothing - there is the metalogical story that never ends in the creator's own personal story.

The Agent

Perhaps you're saying to yourself, "Yes, that sounds all fine, but do you have a suggestion shot on even grainier 16mm that bridges the era between black and white and color TV, and, if you'd be ever-so-kind, that has several lost episodes that may never resurface in the archive for all of time?"

Yes. Yes, I do.

Enter Callan.

The schtick: The 1967 series was the tour de force for Edward Woodward starring as the titular character, Callan. David Callan is the confluence of the tragic everyman anti-hero. Formerly a man of action, Callan, by hook or by crook, is drawn back into the service of a shadowy secret service working within the United Kingdom. Moral ambiguity colors (even the black and white episodes) many of the situations Callan is forced to overcome lest he paint a target on his own back.

Why the recommendation: Edward Woodward does a fine job convincing the viewer that the world is full of terrible people, and sometimes to survive it, you have to stoop to their gutter. His theatrical training serves the role well. Like The Sandbaggers, Callan is shot up close, like a stage play. The closeness pulls the viewer into the various scenarios by the force of characters alone. To be sure, this series starts as a bare bones production. The dialogue, tension and characterization of the lead and supporting roles are what carry Callan through.

Callan predates the dark, gritty trope promulgating across the airwaves in droves today. To put it into perspective from a different point of view: The Andy Griffith Show and The Brady Bunch both ran while Callan was running red files (red being the color marking a target for death). The tone and themes are presented in such a familiar manner, if it weren't for the antique quality video and audio, the series would trump many of its successors today.

Callan is a character study (ergo, "The Agent" title). Its focus on realism is contained in the human aspect rather than tactics, techniques and procedures. The psychological toll on an agent plays a pivotal role in the series. Undoubtedly, the context of the times explains the creative choice. World War II, the "just" war, was long over, in its place a dirty, faceless Cold War. The violence is undignified and the drinks are imbibed as a sleep aid. If for no other reason, watch it to see how a professional killer can hate guns.

The Getaway

The bottom line: spy series need spies. They don't need grandmother's dog being held for ransom. They don't need the protagonist's ex-wife to be a triple agent back from the dead. They don't need excessive crying, nor hyper-charged yell fests. Don't give me throwing star-shaped melon wedges and pickle spears; I want my spy series like I want my whiskey - neat not punctured.

The only way I want my spy series diluted is with martinis. I'll make an exception for wine, because it gets better with age. Check out The Sandbaggers and Callan if you want some prime vintages from yesteryear.