The persona Donna Leon projects on her one television interview I've seen is an insouciant fastidious reminiscent of Henry James's dinner gossip, a catty brittle old woman with a hint of viciousness, and as such, I do not care for her interpretation of Venetian cronyism that her stalwart Brunetti untangles, not that I fail to comprehend her dialectic within the procedural formula: Brunetti is a home boy, schooled, potty trained, righteous to the point of stepping on toes, but she seems more interested in acclimating Victorian values in a modern Italy which only suffocates on its history.
I like Ornen even less, in my objection to Scandinavian social mores, and I am so fed up with Danish and Norwegian and Swedish police methods that the television will stay off any further study of soft-pedaling Russian crooks, but I've seen enough of The Eagle to grasp that Halgrim's writers suggest that the shields we develop take physiological tolls: Divorced twice, absent from mother's demise, estranged from his father, Halgrim, the Danish Icelander (and what is that?) is physical vulnerable as the action hero. He has a heart attack, dies on the table after a stabbing, and much like a super predator, is a fragile hero in pursuit of justice.
I have been tempted for weeks to scold the Georgians for killing their escaped zoo animals, and we all have favorites that ignite our outrage: wolves, bears, dogs, the giraffe. For me, its felines, and in truth, it breaks my damn heart. We're 7 billion, and whatever our innate fears of our hunters as we became human, driving the big cats extinct is a crime which merits our own disappearance from the earth. I would have taken the bullet for the tiger, would it have been spared as a result. Hannibal seems to have run its course, and last week's episode seemed soft in terms of Red Dragon's adaptations. There is very little in Unit One, however, to suggest how Mads goes from emulating Persbrandt's tough love cop to the irony of Harris's superlative cannibal.
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