Yes, a woman has been raped and murdered but we're not gazing on her body, rather on one of the suspects who appears to be rather guilty. That guilt helps somewhat when seconds later he is viciously gored by a cop who has blown a fuse.
The French, like the Brits, are happy to wallow in grime, and every frame of Braquo is grey and dank, and that's just the faces of the cast. Leading the pack is the familiar and brilliant Jean Hughes-Anglade, of Subway and Betty Blue fame.
Although it's set in Paris, it takes three episodes before we see anything approaching a landmark, and then it's just a flash of the Arc de Triomphe from the inside of a speeding car. There is a complete absence of the shiny, of the grand, of the Eiffel f-ing tower. Forget Midnight in Paris, this is midnight in hell.
The set up is familiar enough. A cliché even. A group of tough cops dealing with the baddest criminals in Paris are having to deal with a number of chickens coming home to roost. They are rule breakers who get results - you know the type. But they appear to have got in way over their heads, and internal affairs are sniffing around and acting like weasels. But the transgressions are not isolated. Nearly all of the core cast reminds us of Harvey Keitel in Bad Lieutenant. Except they simultaneously make him seem like a pussy and a horrible person.
There is smoking, sex and drug abuse. There are car chases in BMW's and Peugeots.
Brutal, gripping, and without humour or hope, Braquo is also addictive, compelling, and written by an ex cop (Oliver Marchal). Naturally that means it reminds one of The Wire, but more so of the great and gritty French movie A Prophet.
In other words, it's very, very, très bon.
Braquo, Fridays, 8.30pm (Rialto)
