The Willing Suspension of Disbelief...

One of the very first expressions I learned in my youthful study of poetry came with the ballads that constituted much of the diet deemed suitable for fourteen-year-olds in the late '50s. "The willing suspension of disbelief", I was told, was the essential ingredient in the enjoyment of any drama, whether it was a ballad involving talking crows or a play whose action hinged on the say-so of a ghost. I was reminded of this in the immediate aftermath of the final episode of the wonderful Spooks on BBC1 last night, when more than one friend opined on Facebook that it was a bit predictable and unduly melodramatic, and now I can't start work without writing, briefly, about why I think this is sad.

I have to say that my disbelief was well and truly suspended - not just last night, but all through the series - though I must admit that, very properly, I don't have a clue what goes on in the machinations of 5. But what I am well-attuned to is emotional truth and good acting, and I'd say we had that in spades. Look at Harry. Last night the character was put through the trauma of having the woman he loved die in his arms, and the actor had to express grief in a manner in keeping with the character he played. Have you ever wondered how someone you know, perhaps fear, certainly respect, would react to an extreme situation? The acting in this scene was on a par with the greatest screen acting - different in scale, obviously, from that on a stage - in that all the rawness was expressed in near silence, with gestures redolent of hopelessness, disgust, love, compassion, loss ...

You get the picture? We don't need our drama to reflect our own narrow lives. Whether it's the best episodes of Star Trek - think of Picard in full Shakespearian mode in First Contact - or the death of Hamlet, we want catharsis: the purging of pity and terror so necessary to the dramatists of ancient Greece.

Maybe the trouble is the disengaged watching of drama that occurs in our own sitting-rooms. Maybe we're too used to discussing the action as it occurs, putting the TV on hold while we answer the phone or make some tea, playing computer games at the same time as we watch. Catharsis isn't possible without complete involvement. And I'd argue that complete involvement precludes the self-awareness that criticises technique - unless, of course, the drama itself is unworthy of attention.

But Spooks? Spooks was worthy all right.

Who's under the bed now?

Oh, I shall miss The Hour. Quite apart from plunging me into a frenzy of 50s nostalgia, it's had me on the edge of my seat as it developed; last night's final episode had me wide awake absurdly late as I watched my recording well after choir practice and the difficulties brought on by the dead battery in a car key, the intransigent nature of the tiny manual lock, the fact that the spare key was at home and the pouring rain. But I digress.

I don't want to review the series - I'm feeling idle and there is ironing to do. But I was contemplating the tense finale, as The Hour (the fictional programme in the drama) went out live as the Suez Crisis deepened and the denouement approached. And it came to me how much we've changed from the days when the media were the props of government - or have we? Is it merely the ease and efficiency with which secrecy is broached that has changed? Do we simply have different terrors under the metaphorical bed? Is it just our expectation that has altered?

I don't know. But out of it all came one thought. Spies, subversives and whoever it is that inhabits the underbed space of the day don't actually bring about the downfall of governments. The governments do that for themselves. All that the subversives do is bring the dirty tricks out into the open.

Is it ironic that I shall now look forward to the next run of Spooks?