Looking for ‘The One That Got Away’ (‘Cleddau’)
In our household, we’ve watched a few television dramas about serial killers. We’ve skipped a lot of others. There’s something deeply repetitious about this theme – pun intended. You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.
The usual problem with stories of serial murderers is that the thrill is shallow because the killers are one-dimensional, deranged, not quite human, with missing something “up there.” The story is the chase, the plot, not the characters.
That was true this time, but this time was also different – in other dimensions, of the other characters and the other elements of plot.
“The One That Got Away,” originally a Welsh-language six-episode story for the BBC called “Cleddau,” was shot in Welsh first, and again English. As we watched the first episode, we thought we’d seen it. We had: the Welsh version was broadcast with English subtitles about six months before release of the English version. It seemed at first to be just another serial killer, and thus another reason to change the channel.
This time was different. There was nothing else around that caught our attention, so we thought we’d give it another chance. Six hours later – but not before – we knew which of the characters was the “one that got away,” even if we still couldn’t link the spelling of the name of the river (Cleddau) with the pronunciation we had only half-heard so many times. Such are the complications of sounding out Welsh from the letters that language uses to transcribe sound.
Was the show worth the time commitment? Probably. It has something to do with the theory of repetition and variation, which I’ve written about before.
The theory has its roots in the study of Nazi propaganda (Bartlett, 1940) and mass persuasion more generally (Merton, 1946), but its insights extend into mental practices in a wide range of fields, including music and poetics. Mere repetition soon annoys. Varying the message excites renewed interest by asking the listener or reader to see the difference. It’s one of the hallmarks of the literary theory of Deleuze (2001) as well.
Here's how it works in this case:
First, the theme: The serial killer is in prison, where he has been for twelve years. But a body appears using a similar modus operandi. A copy-cat? Will another body turn up soon? Is the new perpetrator an accomplice? Was the outcome of the old case an unsafe conviction? So far, so repetitive of the sub-genre.
Second, the first variation: The detective who found the evidence that led to the initial conviction is reunited with his partner, a female detective with whom he had a relationship, on whom he had cheated. She’s parachuted in to help, now a more senior detective. She, not he, will be senior investigating officer. Will the male detective, now married and with a daughter, cheat on his wife with his old flame? This is a domestic offense, not a crime per se. But it offends against propriety, if not the law.
Third, the second variation: The chief constable doesn’t want any link between the current cases and the historical one. Each time he says so, the reasoning changes. This variation within variation widens the scope not just of possible perpetrators but also, of those complicit is whatever miscarriages of justice may have occurred – or be about to occur. This is an attack against the institutions of political and social order.
These variations may not be literal killings, but the first threatens to kill a relationship, the second is likely to be just one example of a serial assault on justice. They repeat the theme of the original crime but vary its location and import.
It helps that these layers are built around a core plot with several twists, with not one but two surprise suspects popping into view only as the series reaches its final episode.
Sadly, there are implausible events that serve the purposes of plot but strain credibility. The convicted man is held in a prison located one hundred fifty miles from the action. Two suspects are sent there on remand, where each interacts with the supposed originator of the first killings. Surely suspects would be jailed somewhere else – anywhere else – and somewhere closer to the courts and prosecutors. But the prison needs to be far from home to serve the plot’s requirement for the possibility of marital triste. That’s a quibble, but the repetition of the error with the second suspect annoys.
In “The One That Got Away,” the variations on the theme of repeated transgressions introduce psychological and intellectual dimensions that the core theme – serial murders – lacks. Such lack of depth of characterization is where many examples of the sub-genre fall down. Moreover, the layering, the variation, in this example is fulfilling. The story feels as though it doesn’t need a sequel even if there are loose ends, not least that one of the suspected culprits gets away.
So, I won’t look forward to any second season. Once is enough. Repeating this story to catch “the one that got away” might prove to be a case where variation loses out and repetition annoys.
Bartlett, F. C. (1940). Political Propaganda. Cambridge: The University Press.
Deleuze, G. (2001). Difference and Repetition (P. Patton, Trans.). London: Continuum.
Merton, R. K. (1946). Mass Persuasion: The Social Psychology of a War Bond Drive. New York: Harper.