Watching the Detectives

BBC1, 10.55pm

ER

Channel 4, 9.00pm

TV is very fond of reality. From Get Me Publicity I'm a Big Brother Survivor to Sky journalists faking missile launches, the medium likes authenticity so much it can't resist adding improvements. What's your opinion? Here's a phone-in poll. What's the state of the world? Here's a dramatised reconstruction. All of it sort-of true; all ''real''.

The trouble with this, of course, is that, after a while, the actual and invented begin to blend. Everyone has heard of the poor dears who believe that real people live in a real Coronation Street. So how do we judge all those ''based on a true story'' movies, all those ''grittily realistic'' dramas? And what happens when unvarnished truth tries to find its way to the screen?

First, if Watching the Detectives is anything to go by, it gets banished to the scheduling dungeons, presumably because a cop show involving real cops might confuse viewers. Secondly, paradoxes creep in. The truth about crime is rarely entertaining. Often it is grim; sometimes it is dull. Yet someone still has the job of turning it into watchable TV for an audience raised on The Bill.

Watching the Detectives did its best. Filmed over four years, it neither shirked the task of showing police work in all its tedium, nor did it spare us many revolting details. At first sight it was wholly admirable; on second thoughts it was troubling, and not just because of its content.

Danny Thompson finds Shane Collier in his former girlfriend's house and stabs him to death. Thompson then dismembers and buries the body while threatening to kill the girl and her children if she contacts the police. South Yorkshire detectives are certain a murder has taken place, but months pass before they discover a corpse. Amidst it all three young children become crucial witnesses.

All this was true; all this was also, in TV terms, an excellent plot. The actual children were not exploited, at least not explicitly, but since actors voiced their words in reconstructions, and since those reconstructions formed the film's deliberately dramatic opening, the effect was unsettling. Equally, you could not help but feel that coppers with their graveyard humour were responding, consciously or not, to the camera. Cinema verite was long since devalued, in any case, by movies in search of ''realism''. Watching the Detectives was real; it happened. Yet somehow it felt like an episode from an especially hard-hitting drama.

ER, bewitched by its own cleverness, long ago lost any claim to that title. Last night's episode, number 200, promised two episodes for the price of one, with Pratt on his last night-shift, Carter on day duty, and an eclipse thrown in for the benefit of anyone who missed the dark/light conceit. It was a mess.

Perhaps realising as much, the writers threw in every calamity they could think of. An amputation; a mass suicide; another gangland shooting: all human death was here. Noah Wyle's Dr John Carter deserves better.