Alan Bennett’s Talking Heads review: Star-studded monologues to sand-blast the soul

The playwright revisits his classic TV series with 12 new episodes that don’t hesitate to pile on the misery

With its heady mix of misery, claustrophobia and barbed-wire wryness, Alan Bennett’s Talking Heads (BBC One) is perfect for revival as we negotiate the long, strange summer of Covid-19. But, be warned, in the first two episodes at least, the misery truly is of the high caffeine, black tea and burnt toast variety.

Dead children, mental illness and incest all crop up as Imelda Staunton and Sarah Lancashire perform Bennett’s monologues with a fervour that sand-blasts the soul. You may feel the need for an extended solitary walk afterwards, which is awkward given that popping out for some air isn’t as straightforward as it used to be.

The rejuvenation of Talking Heads is the brainchild of BBC head of drama Piers Wenger, working with former National Theatre director Nicholas Hytner. Noting the ruined heath that passed for the channel’s schedule through June, they persuaded Bennett to revive his esteemed series, originally broadcast in 1988 and 1998.

Conveniently, the EastEnders set at Elstree Studios was lying unused, with soaps just one of the many casual pleasures snatched away in recent months. An empty stage. Actors with nothing to do other than play Zoom quizzes with their mates. And a liminal moment in our collective lives, in which the world as we know it – knew it at least – has been turned on its head. No wonder Bennett agreed that the alchemy for a Talking Heads revisitation was just right.

All 12 instalments are available on iPlayer and feature a who’s who of talent, including Jodie Comer, Kristin Scott Thomas and Martin Freeman. Of the two aired on the BBC on Tuesday, “A Lady of Letters” revisits a cherished episode from 1988, while “An Ordinary Woman” is the first of two new pieces penned by Bennett (and directed by Hytner).

“A Lady of Letters” is a horror story in miniature – Stephen King spliced with Coronation Street. In the original, Patricia Routledge chilled as curtain twitcher Irene Ruddock – a Hyacinth Bucket gone to the dark side whose obsessive letter-writing is revealed to be the outpouring of a diseased mind and unquiet spirit. Imelda Staunton, installed in Dot Cotton’s living room, now takes up the baton.

Her natterings have the quality of hellfire. They also pander to our assumptions about archetypes, so that we immediately take Staunton’s character as a stereotypical neighbourhood busybody and thus essentially harmless. But then comes twist after twist, starting with the revelation that the dissolute parents from across the road, whom Mrs Ruddock reported to the authorities, were actually going out each night to visit their dying child in hospital.

“An Ordinary Woman”, written by Bennett two years ago and inspired in part by Jean Racine’s Phèdre, is less successful. Lancashire is an average mum who develops incestuous feelings towards her 15 year-old-son. Is this a thing we should all be thinking about? What point is Bennett making about human nature? Other than that parents should… try not to fancy their teenage children? Lancashire is devastating, portraying the spiralling Gwen with empathy and generosity of spirit. Goodness, it’s grim though.