Relaxing with the ignoble

Unless I have slept through another of the year’s once-in-a-lifetime experiences — which is rather more likely than possible — the days since the Wimbledon final have passed without call for bunting, cheering, spangling or any other kind of cross-gartered preparedness. We seem to occupy a lacuna; to have swum into the eye of the 2012 Events’ Cyclone. Here we are invited, until the Games begin, to rest our flag-waving arms, uncross our patriotic fingers and reacquaint our senses with something other than Pride-and-Glory.

With immaculate timing — while Centre Court was still being put to bed — Wallander returned to BBC1 (Sunday). I never imagined, quite frankly, that I’d be so relieved to see a severed arm, a shallow grave, a shotgun, a sledgehammer and two barking Alsatians — let alone Kenneth Branagh in sensible shoes and a quilted jacket — but it was refreshing, even relaxing, to be reminded of all that is inglorious, ignoble, shaming and despicable; to be astounded not by the reaching heights of distinguished achievement but by the stooping depths of common depravity.

Watching Scandinavian Crime Thrillers seems to have become a competitive sport — a sort of Box Set Top Trumps — with scuffles in the playground over who can become the first and most devoted fan of each new release. The BBC’s Wallander was almost trampled to death by a stampede of its own fanbase, rushing to get to The Bridge/Borgen/The Killing. Since I am too commitment-phobic for five sets of tennis, let alone 20 episodes of The Killing, Wallander suits me fine: I relish the self-containment of each episode without any desire to be taken hostage by the tensions and anxieties of an ongoing saga.

Wallander is well written, strikingly shot and beautifully acted — as we would expect — and then it goes on being good right through to the marrow, in ways we appreciate without always noticing.