An oil rig is cut off by a mysterious fog, and there is much grunting and growling and furrowing of brows.

Back in the 1970s it was hard for television to film on location so we got used to most of what we saw being recreated in a TV studio. The sets would wobble, the lighting was top heavy, you could hear the bulky cameras creaking across the floor, and no matter where the actors were supposed to be, their voices had the interior acoustic of a West London sound stage. If you were especially lucky, the microphone (or its shadow) would pop into frame, and my brother and I would shout ‘boom!’ with triumphant glee. Television was largely shot multi-camera, so there had to be a fourth wall, and we accepted the artifice as part of the medium, and enjoyed it for all its obvious imperfections. Plus, there wasn’t a choice.

These days most naturalistic drama is shot on location, and if it’s historical, sci-fi or fantasy, then the visuals can be pimped up with a few CGI trimmings. Alternatively, the whole thing can be done ‘green screen’, taking us back to where we started, although hopefully, modern tech means we don’t see the joins, or the wrinkles at the bottom of a backcloth, or hear the acoustic limitations of the studio.

If the world is entirely fantastical, it doesn’t matter too much. We accept that it’s a constructed, imagined environment, but an oil rig is a real and familiar thing. We all know what real water, and ocean waves look like. The gantries will clank under your heavy boots. We imagine that if you stand stark naked on an oil platform in the middle of the North Sea it might be a bit breezy and you’ll have a few goosebumps. If you want to talk to someone, at the top of a rig tower, the wind will carry your voice away and you’ll have to shout.

It’s perfectly possible to pretend all of these things in a modern studio show, but in The Rig no one, aside from the dependable Owen Teale, seems to have thought about where it is they’re pretending to be. To be fair, in a few scenes we can hear blustery gusts whistling through the metalwork, but someone forgot to hire a wind machine, so virtually nobody’s hair moves, their jackets hang limp as on a calm summer’s day, and there’s no hint of ocean spray. It’s almost as if they’re indoors.

The reason I’m wanging on about this is that the clue is in the title, and if the USP of your show is that it’s set on an oil rig, then that rig must be a believable environment, a character of sorts in its own right. The creaking artifice of The Rig may turn out to be part of its kitsch attraction but I found the poor technical execution distractingly wince inducing. Of course, you can forget all of that if the story and characters sweep you along, allowing you to suspend your considerable disbelief.

So…. the crew get stuck on the rig by a mysterious fog, which is even less convincing that the CGI ocean it’s rolling across. They lose communication. Warning lights flash; some dials go into the red which have to be shut down; and something bursts into flame, although I wasn’t quite sure why. Martin Compston mumbles; Owen Teale shouts; Iain Glen looks worried and mixes it up a bit by growling. Mark Bonnar has the air of a world-weary mechanic telling you your big end’s gone. They all have beards so we know they’re hard, but also thoughtful. Compston’s love interest (Emily Hampshire) sports an uncomfortably tight white shirt, retina searing red lipstick, and puts on Very Big Glasses, so we know she must be brainy even if her motives are suspect. But, in the name of diversity, she is countered by a tough, no-nonsense, rufty-tufty gay woman with no lipstick who soon proves herself a bit of a hero. French and Saunders, eat your hearts out.

Verdict: The Rig is so cheesy, I can see it gaining a cult following – an unintentionally post-modern homage to 1970s camp kitschery – but these days there is a choice, and when there’s so much to compete with, I’m not sure I have time for it. 4/10

Martin Jameson

www.ninjamarmoset.com