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Our House finale, review: this brainless TV drama needs bulldozing

Martin Compston as Bram Lawson in Our House - ITV
Martin Compston as Bram Lawson in Our House - ITV

After four hours of breathless, brainless action and Martin Compston sweating over mortgage forms, Our House (ITV) finally came to an end. And I know what you’re thinking. “£1.7 million? For that house? In that part of London?” They should be asking for double that in this market.

If they had, maybe they could have afforded to buy a new bulb for that grotty flat they shared. This is where the dramatic denouement of the whole series took place, but I can’t really tell you what happened, because I couldn’t see a thing. The contrast button on my remote control has taken the rest of the year off in protest.

Well, that was tripe, wasn’t it? There was, it must be said, some satisfaction in that ending – in which Compston’s slippery, unfaithful husband, Bram (Bram?), attempted to do the right thing for once by recording a confession about the fatal car crash, the blackmail and the involvement of the malevolent Toby/Mike (Rupert Penry-Jones). But this, of course, landed wife Fi (Tuppence Middleton) in the muck and she was soon carted off by the police for killing Mike/Toby.

However, even this neat bit of plotting was undone by the fact that it was never clear who we were supposed to be rooting for. Not Fi, surely, as she got her comeuppance. Not Bram (Bram?), as he was a wee scamp who couldn’t keep it in his trousers (and killed a child, too, which is the sign of a rotter in an ITV drama). The unfaithful neighbour (Weruche Opia)? The irritating blackmail woman? The useless solicitor? (I enjoyed the bit of TV-drama shorthand which informed us the solicitor was useless – he had a cold! No competent solicitor would get a cold.)

I have many more questions – wouldn’t you taste it if someone crushed dozens of pills into your wine? Why was Tuppence Middleton acting like she was an advert for Nurofen? – but what’s the use? This is fast-food TV, intended to be consumed quickly and forgotten instantly. It’s TV that says “if you want art, go to a gallery”. And there’s no use giving up and turning on Netflix – they’re making the same shows over there.