Sharp Detective Invective

The Australian, 21st June 2001

by James Hall

CHRIS Ellison owes a big debt to whoever gave him his name in The Bill. Had he been called Eric Todd, Peter Maldon or Dennis Eggbuilt (with apologies to anyone who is), he would not be the Frank Burnside we know today. Television's tough cops – and he is invariably billed as the toughest – are all Franks, Jacks and Andies. In crime shows, the name of the game is the name. Where would James Bond have been had he been created Douglas Pond? But back to Sideburns. Sorry, Burnside.

As Billites know, Burnside is really the only star to have emerged from the British police drama that has been running here for the past three millennia. And it's easy to see why. When he's on screen he seems to be surrounded by blandness. He is the only cast member to have developed a presence – if you put aside Reg.

That said, Burnside's presence largely comprises bull-headedness ("Play by the rules and you get shafted" being his philosophy) and considerable bulk. In this instance he bulks out even more than usual by rarely divesting his sinister black overcoat, which admittedly does go with his dark jowls, black shirt and black look.

His look, of course, is the other half of his presence. As an actor Ellison may not be Tom Cruise, Walter Matthau, Erich von Stronheim or anyone else, but he can outstare the Sphinx. Frank stares – and glares – for Britain. Well, the Met, anyway.

It's the kind of look that causes villains to wet themselves and women to think he's about to have a heart attack. In fact, he's usually about to have a fit of pique, usually occasioning a burst of his trademark invective, which is inclined to make grown men quiver, even when they are holding a gun on him.

His outstanding talent for terrifying rebukes, notably pitted with the pillocks, geezers, toe-rags, prats, wankers and little shits found in the Burnside lexicon of terms of abuse, must partly account for his status as a Detective Chief Inspector. His first line in this opening episode of a six-part series sets the tone: "Don't botha with that silly tart, it's the arseholes in powa you should be gettin' afta" – this to a gunman shooting up a bar after being disrespected, as they say now, by a barmaid. At 10 paces, our dark prince is lethal with a dropped aspirate or consonant.

Actually, he has been a DCI for quite a while now – and it's beginning to show in his reluctance to walk anywhere, except into a bar – from a car park. Not that he's yet too old to do the business. Early in tonight's episode, his female sidekick Sam Philips (Zoe Eeles) – a ballsy Scottish detective constable who looks about 14 – has to be disabused that he's not a rusting dinosaur about to take up knitting. At the same time, he's not going to do all the work. "You're not a load of glove puppets with my hand up your arse," he tells her and others he is leading in the National Crime Squad, an elite outfit that apparently is known as Britain's FBI, though it seems to put fewer people in the field than Man U.

Their job is to tackle organised crime, but Frank, being Burnside, isn't much interested in the brief from the boss – "that prat who looks like someone auditioning for the Labour front bench". He's going after the villain, now flogging his memoirs on television, who killed his oppo 20 years earlier – "a poisonous, bollockless, cowardly, racist piece of shit" in Frank's book.

The series is slick routine stuff, with writer Lizzie Mickery's bon mots for Burnside the highlight. If you like the ageing geeza in The Bill you'll like 'im 'ere. Know wot I mean?

© 2001

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