The Disappearing Art of Television Opening Credits
A concerning trend is sweeping through crime television dramas, where producers are increasingly relegating the opening title sequence to any position except the beginning of the show. This practice is becoming absurdly common, undermining a time-honoured tradition that once defined British broadcasting.
Delayed Credits Disrupt Viewing Experience
Recent examples highlight this shift. The first episode of Holliday Grainger's surveillance thriller The Capture, which recently concluded its run, forced viewers to wait a full twelve minutes before the title sequence appeared. Similarly, the much-anticipated return of Bergerac featured a six-minute delay before the iconic theme tune played.
Some might argue that dedicated viewers should recognise a programme without needing the same introductory shots each week. However, this logic raises a fundamental question: if titles are so unnecessary, why include them at all? The answer lies in their cultural and artistic significance.
Credits as Cultural Cornerstones
When executed masterfully, an opening sequence becomes one of the most memorable elements of a brilliant series. Consider classics like Dallas, The Sweeney, Dad's Army, or even Blue Peter. In some cases, as a series ages beyond its prime, the credits remain the sole highlight—Doctor Who serves as a prime example.
Paired with first-rate theme music, exceptional credits can embed themselves into the mosaic of national identity. Half a century ago, instantly recognising the opening bars of The Onedin Line or Fawlty Towers was integral to British cultural literacy. Today, that tradition is eroding.
Bergerac's Original Magic Versus Modern Misfire
The original Bergerac from 1981 perfectly demonstrated the artform. Its theme tune—jaunty yet ominous—blended a swinging bass and saxophone with a stinging electric guitar and a burst of Gallic accordion. This catchy composition cleverly summarised the show's unique appeal.
A weekly collage of images showcased John Nettles as Jersey detective Jim Bergerac: watching suspects from behind a newspaper, driving his Triumph Roadster along the seafront, and making arrests in swimming pools. Meanwhile, his dapper co-star Terence Alexander gambled for high stakes in casinos. This sixty-second sequence encapsulated an entire episode's essence.
The Reboot's Shortcomings
The Bergerac remake, starring Damien Molony, has lost much of this original magic. Its opening credits feature an abstract pattern of translucent blue triangles and exploding Rorschach inkblots, while the familiar tune is rendered almost unrecognisable as a sombre electronic dirge. It is little wonder producers bury it within the first fifteen minutes rather than placing it proudly at the start.
Damien Molony portrays the detective with a permanently apologetic demeanour, lacking John Nettles' characteristic swagger. He seems perpetually on the verge of apologising for his own existence. Supporting characters like Zoe Wanamaker's Charlie are underutilised, though her dynamic with boyfriend Nigel (Adrian Edmondson) shows potential.
This year's investigation—a bridegroom murdered at his reception, stabbed through the heart with a wedding cake knife—holds promise. Yet, the storyline could unfold anywhere; the distinctive Channel Islands setting has been largely discarded, much like the title sequence itself.
The art of the credit sequence is fading, and with it, a piece of television heritage that once united audiences and defined eras.
