Playing Nice

It’s more-ish, though, one of those bingeably implausible dramas that you will thoroughly enjoy if you surrender to it rather than yelling: “But that would never happen!”

Grace Ofori-Attah’s nimble adaptation of JP Delaney’s novel had faith in its excellent cast’s ability to illuminate deep feeling with subtle looks, gestures and evasions.

While the first episode of Playing Nice is a bit predictable, the performances of the leads, along with the prospects of what will happen in the rest of the series, adds tension to the psychological thriller.

There’s nothing particularly groundbreaking or memorable about Playing Nice, nor does the drama have anything especially profound to say about parenting. You’ll likely remember your frustration with it far longer than any of its plot specifics. And yet, while you’re watching it, you’ll still find yourself desperate to know what happens next.

The main problem, oddly, is Norton (also an executive producer). Not only does Pete’s accent go walkabout from Penzance to Surrey; he is such a soggy dweeb, lamenting away in his Seasalt Cornwall separates, that it feels like a misguided ruse to guard against Norton being typecast for ever as Tommy from Happy Valley. McArdle, however, is convincingly menacing: all faux-bonhomie and granite-hard eyes.

There’s a good human thriller buried in there, about the interpersonal challenges of unriddling an unthinkable situation. But what we get, instead, is another whiplash-inducing, overripe shock fest, which privileges handbrake turns over steady handling.