TV Eye: Bloodlines, but no blood

Steven Graham as Al Capone in Boardwalk Empire. Photo / Supplied

At the tables at Nucky Thompson's joint in Atlantic City, they'd probably call it a busted flush. Only HBO's Boardwalk Empire, isn't quite that - something that's completely failed to live up to its potential.

It's just that this Prohibition-era, gangster drama, now three-quarters done on Sky's main movie channel, has breezed its pretty way through eight (of 12) episodes like some handsome but not particularly bright dame trading on her good looks alone.

Much as I found my mind wandering in the latter stages of Mad Men's equally pretty first series, I've caught myself in recent weeks tuning out from the boardwalk action and wondering what it is that is keeping me watching; certainly others I know have long since parted ways with the show.

In part, I suspect it's the US$65 million show's provenance that's keeping me tuned in: two key contributors to The Sopranos, Terence Winter and Tim Van Patten, have created, written and/or directed a number of episodes of Boardwalk Empire.

And let's not forget that the Don of the mob movie, Martin Scorsese, is an executive producer - and directed the first episode to boot.

In terms of its bloodlines, if this show was a Melbourne Cup horse, Bart Cummings would be its trainer and I'd be putting a quiet hundred on it.

From the first scene, the production values have been extraordinary. Now, eight episodes in, the key pieces are all in place too.

The show has established its king, Nucky Thompson (Steve Buscemi), as its diffident, trouble centre. As the crooked, murderous treasurer of Atlantic City, all roads, kickbacks and storylines eventually lead to him.

His queen, Margaret Schroeder (Kelly Macdonald), a deceptively demure and prim Irish widow, has in the last few episodes cleverly manoeuvred her way into Nucky's affections and bed, though her motivations and clearly unsettled conscience are wild cards.

There is Jimmy Darmody, Nucky's protege. He's a crooked, murderous WWI vet making his own way in Chicago and primed to make trouble on his return to Atlantic City.

And finally there is Nelson Van Alden (Michael Shannon), the completely barmy, fundamentalist Christian, Prohibition agent who is, ever so slowly, narrowing Nucky down as the guy to take down.

On the page, they read like compelling characters. Yet on screen, they are struggling. Nucky is, quite simply, not a forceful enough personality to drive the drama. He lacks the goofy wit and the random menace of a Tony Soprano or the coldly calculating, dead-eyed single-mindedness of a Michael Corleone.

Meanwhile Darmody, despite his screen time, seems underwritten, while Van Alden is, so far, a mere caricature.

Of the key protagonists, only Margaret, played with care by Macdonald, seems fully formed, wholly real and worthy of our time - well, apart from a nascent Al Capone, played with real zest by an Englishman, Stephen Graham, who steals all of the few scenes he's in.

There is a strange lack of story too. Eight episodes in, despite the whirl of parties, the flood of illegal booze, an ensemble cast big enough to fill a whole city, the occasional zippy one-liner and the web of intrigues of bent politicians and scar-faced gangsters, the plot is sorely missing any kind of momentum. So far, five men have died over a cargo of illegal whiskey, Nucky has had nothing but bad luck, Darmody has frowned a lot and the boys in New York, Chicago and Washington are up to various kinds of no-good.

It is, I think, too sprawling and digressive, where it needs to have a tightly focused central yarn. Even the action is, well, if not quite limp, then bloodless; curiously for an American drama the sex has been graphic, but the violence not.

Did I say it wasn't quite a busted flush? Perhaps it is. Much like Darmody in his bespoke suit, it looks the part, but seems unsure of itself or of what it wants to do next. Yet a lot can happen in four episodes.

Certainly HBO have decided it's worth a second season. Only when I've seen the first's final scene will I know whether, like some hopeless, drunk Atlantic City gambler, they've thrown good money after bad.

- TimeOut