Series 3 of Inside No. 9 may contain its first real duffer but also has some of its cleverest work yet as well
“Why can’t people just say what they mean instead of trying to trick you all the time?”
One of the more gobsmackingly awesome aspects of Inside No. 9 is the absolute unpredictability of where the show will go next, the sheer variety of tropes and twists Steve Pemberton and Reece Shearsmith fold into their storytelling. As Series 3 takes into directors’ commentary on a 70s TV show, squabbles over paying a restaurant bill and the world of cryptic crossword-setting, there’s such joy in discovering where we end up going and the calibre of actor they end up taking with them.
So the likes of The Devil of Christmas features Rula Lenska and Sir Derek Jacobi alongside Jessica Raine as they make a film-within-a-film with a difference deep in the Austrian Alps, Jason Watkins and Philip Glenister join Pemberton and Shearsmith for tapas somewhere up north but settling The Bill leads to a fascinatingly thorny look at masculine egos, and again, much more besides. And of course Fiona Shaw and Felicity Kendal rock up at Private View, set in the gloom of an underground art gallery.
The highlight of this series, for me, is The Riddle of the Sphinx, initially deceptively simple as it just features Alexandra Roach in the guest cast but set in the world of cryptic crosswords, it proves to be a wonderfully densely packed episode. Drawing fiendish inspiration from Anthony Shaffer’s Sleuth, Machiavellian manipulations play out on multiple levels and you’ll really need to concentrate to appreciate everything it offers up, even if you may flinch at one point or another.
By contrast, Empty Orchestra which immediately follows it does feel like a letdown, the abrupt shift in tone absolutely par for the course with the show but it is just a bit flat. A workplace drama, part told through the lyrics of 80s pop songs in a private karaoke booth, its reduced stakes don’t really work in the company of pretty much every other episode here. But when you finish with something as audacious as Private View, you forgive pretty much anything with its combination of Agatha Christie and Saw that is as gagworthy as it is gruesome.
