James Norton’s Playing Nice: A Delightfully Twisted Tale of Whimsy and Intrigue

Everybody is familiar with Cosy Crime, but thus far, nobody has devised a fitting name for this specific subtype of domestic noir – which, to be honest, is less noir than a lesser shade of dark grey from Little Greene – that continues to thrive abundantly in publishing. You know the type of narrative I imply. These tales aren’t precisely cozy; they feature no clergy at evening services, nor do they delve into retirement communities nestled in tranquil hamlets. However, they also don’t qualify as edgy.

Visualize, if you may, a £50,000 kitchen. This immaculate area, complete with its vast countertops and light-toned dining table, could not be more aspirational if it endeavored – yet, on some level, it symbolizes Innocence. It’s a sanctuary, albeit a pristine one, and it will soon be visited by the unavoidable Cuckoo, who shall commit something dreadful against its inhabitants, effecting a transgression against bliss that surpasses merely neglecting to recycle one’s Nespresso capsules.

Playing Nice, a fresh series on ITV, is a “psychological thriller” (from now on referred to in these circles as a Sourdough Screamer) based on a 2020 novel by J P Delaney, the nom de plume of a gentleman named Tony who – surprise! – was once prominent in advertising. It boasts a glamorous, attractive ensemble cast featuring Niamh Algar, Jessica Brown Findlay, James McArdle, and James Norton, along with atmospheric settings in Cornwall, and a storyline centering on the revelation by two couples that their toddler sons were unintentionally exchanged in a hospital mishap post-delivery. Ultimately, however, it’s the kitchens that catch the eye. Delaney presents us with three of them – one allocated to each couple, plus another that belongs to a trendy restaurant boasting sweeping views of the sea – and even the coziest among them appears ready for the pages of World of Interiors.

Uh-oh, you contemplate, regarding the delicate branded champagne flutes. Clearly, trouble looms on the horizon, perhaps even now lurking among the linseeds in the Plain English-style pantry. When the two pairs – Pete, the former journalist (Norton), and his esteemed chef wife Maddie (Algar); Miles, the architect (McArdle), and his artist spouse Lucy (Findlay) – convene to deliberate their challenging predicament, their camaraderie would seem contrived even without their absurd conversation. (At Miles’ and Lucy’s grand self-constructed home, Maddie recognizes one of Lucy’s creations. “Indeed,” answers Lucy, nonchalantly. “It was displayed at the Royal Academy years ago!”) Someone’s the Cuckoo here, after all. But just moments later, Miles appears at Maddie and Pete’s significantly smaller residence bearing a tricycle for their (his) child, Theo, and the ruse is up. Naturally, it’s him, the smug Mamil with a taste for surveillance cameras!

Medical institutions do err; instances of baby swapping have transpired before. Yet Delaney and his adaptor, Grace Ofori-Attah, are not concerned with believability, much less intricacy. Confounded, primal emotions regarding blood and affection are overshadowed here first by affluent snobbery – Miles and Lucy possess greater wealth and sophistication than Pete and Maddie – then by what appears to border on psychopathy (I can’t ascertain because I’ve only viewed two episodes). Miles’s name is telling. M-I-L-E-S. He’s one of those elite eccentrics who opts for vacations in Norfolk when he could indulge in the Maldives, yet who also assumes that individuals residing in homes with only three bedrooms comprise some sort of perilous, drug-addicted lower class.

So why did I persist in viewing? Partially, it’s the season. The non-dilemmas in Playing Nice’s non-twists and non-turns perfectly suit a protracted, arid January. Mostly, however, it’s the experience of observing a talented cast bringing life to such ludicrous material that I find delightful, clean, and deliciously twisted amusement. If Norton is light-years away from Happy Valley here – “O’im goin’ to keep ew safe, Theo!” – an entire universe separates McArdle from his stage performances (oh, but he shone in the Old Vic’s recent revival of Tom Stoppard’s The Real Thing). First, the insidious line, delivered with an oily grin. Then, with his back turned, the mute snarl and the darting gaze. He’s behind you, clad in Nike leggings! For anyone storing a pasta maker in a box within a cupboard under the stairs, it appears that panto season is not over quite yet.

[See also: “Better Man” review: Robbie Williams’ anti-redemption arc]