#16 Planespotting
11/06/20 12:16
Last month, there was a spectacular 174% jump in online searches for property on Ibiza. You can probably understand, stuck at home trying to engage your offspring in a BBC Bitesize on Iron Age roundhouses while simultaneously resisting the lure of the 24-pack of stockpiled Wotsits, why you might be tempted to have a teensy Balearic browse. Certainly I’ve hit Rightmove hard during the last few weeks, flitting between my regular targets – crofts in Argyll versus fixer-uppers in North Cornwall – and occasionally dabbling in something in a little more exotic, like a Provençal gîte or a Tuscan villa. My latest chutney fantasy is to keep alpacas somewhere delightfully bucolic, with easy access to Daylesford Organic and Soho Farmhouse. But, you know, Ibiza would do. Particularly now, because like everyone else who’s recently indulged in an island renovation flirtation, I’ve been inspired by the new Netflix series White Lines.
I’ll be honest, I started watching it because I’d heard it was shit, and was gearing up for a hatchet job. I haven’t done one yet, and was all ready to throw some serious British shade on their sunny Spanish fiesta, but then it turned out to be really fun, goddammit, and now I’m smitten, like a 16-year-old on holiday in Benidorm, eyeing up a smouldering barman.
White Lines is a whodunnit set in Europe’s clubbing capital, and as a series it offers you a lot of things. Think Eldorado on smack, or The Durrells, but with gang bangs. Sí, por favor. There’s intrigue, obviously, because we have a murder to solve – that of human amphetamine Axel Collins, a 90s northern DJ whose body turns up in the first episode. His sister Zoe arrives from Manchester to investigate, and thus, through flashback scenes, we begin to piece together how he died, jumping between twenty-odd years ago when Axel was livin’ it large, and the present day. So, we get to see decadent pool parties, and annoying ravers, reminding me that I’d rather have six months of strict lockdown than ever go to one of those heinous blowouts. There are some enjoyably explicit orgies – Angela Griffin plays Anna, a laidback madam who lays out helpful lines of cocaine for her rutting guests. She is the ex-wife of Marcus (a buoyant Daniel Mays), Axel’s former best friend and hapless DJ-cum-dealer who smuggles his heroin by banana boat. Then there are the Calafats, the Sopranos of Sant Antoni – Andreu, the head of the family, tasks his head of security, Boxer, with finding out who killed Axel and dumped the corpse on his land. Oriol, his son, has some sort of weird Oedipal thing going on with his terrifyingly seductive mother, Conchita. All the Spanish cast speak Spanish to each other, which of course they would, but in such a frothy series, it feels like a ballsy move. Their fiery, rapid-fire exchanges are much sexier than the sex parties.
But, oh God, the most beautiful, arousing thing is the setting. Whenever there’s a clunky bit of dialogue, you can just allow yourself to be distracted by the glorious scenery. That gorgeous, sun-drenched island, constantly stroked by azure sea. The only line I crave is one drawn in the sand with my toe as I look out at the glittering Mediterranean and inhale the salty breeze. I’d knock off drug barons with my bare hands for that kind of rush.
Eye nose-candy aside, I do have some issues with this show. Zoe, the main character, is basically irritating and incompetent, and I have no idea why everyone – particularly Boxer, Andreu’s drop-dead henchman – is helping her out. I also don’t get the point of her constant video calls to her therapist, which seem unnecessary and visually jarring. Laurence Fox is in it, a casting faux pas. The action is messy, inconsistent, and occasionally batshit crazy, with some pretty brutal violence alongside strangely comedic, almost farcical scenes. Frankly, White Lines is off its tits, not sure if it’s coming up or down, and missing the high it’s striving for. But chill the fuck out, man. It’s a LARF, innit? Or laff, if you’re from Manchester. What White Lines doesn’t do is take itself too seriously. It gives you sun, sea & sex, Spanish subtitles, sordid secrets & a sudden urge to see if you could afford a broken-down finca in San Carlos. Which is all I really want at the moment.
I’ll be honest, I started watching it because I’d heard it was shit, and was gearing up for a hatchet job. I haven’t done one yet, and was all ready to throw some serious British shade on their sunny Spanish fiesta, but then it turned out to be really fun, goddammit, and now I’m smitten, like a 16-year-old on holiday in Benidorm, eyeing up a smouldering barman.
White Lines is a whodunnit set in Europe’s clubbing capital, and as a series it offers you a lot of things. Think Eldorado on smack, or The Durrells, but with gang bangs. Sí, por favor. There’s intrigue, obviously, because we have a murder to solve – that of human amphetamine Axel Collins, a 90s northern DJ whose body turns up in the first episode. His sister Zoe arrives from Manchester to investigate, and thus, through flashback scenes, we begin to piece together how he died, jumping between twenty-odd years ago when Axel was livin’ it large, and the present day. So, we get to see decadent pool parties, and annoying ravers, reminding me that I’d rather have six months of strict lockdown than ever go to one of those heinous blowouts. There are some enjoyably explicit orgies – Angela Griffin plays Anna, a laidback madam who lays out helpful lines of cocaine for her rutting guests. She is the ex-wife of Marcus (a buoyant Daniel Mays), Axel’s former best friend and hapless DJ-cum-dealer who smuggles his heroin by banana boat. Then there are the Calafats, the Sopranos of Sant Antoni – Andreu, the head of the family, tasks his head of security, Boxer, with finding out who killed Axel and dumped the corpse on his land. Oriol, his son, has some sort of weird Oedipal thing going on with his terrifyingly seductive mother, Conchita. All the Spanish cast speak Spanish to each other, which of course they would, but in such a frothy series, it feels like a ballsy move. Their fiery, rapid-fire exchanges are much sexier than the sex parties.
But, oh God, the most beautiful, arousing thing is the setting. Whenever there’s a clunky bit of dialogue, you can just allow yourself to be distracted by the glorious scenery. That gorgeous, sun-drenched island, constantly stroked by azure sea. The only line I crave is one drawn in the sand with my toe as I look out at the glittering Mediterranean and inhale the salty breeze. I’d knock off drug barons with my bare hands for that kind of rush.
Eye nose-candy aside, I do have some issues with this show. Zoe, the main character, is basically irritating and incompetent, and I have no idea why everyone – particularly Boxer, Andreu’s drop-dead henchman – is helping her out. I also don’t get the point of her constant video calls to her therapist, which seem unnecessary and visually jarring. Laurence Fox is in it, a casting faux pas. The action is messy, inconsistent, and occasionally batshit crazy, with some pretty brutal violence alongside strangely comedic, almost farcical scenes. Frankly, White Lines is off its tits, not sure if it’s coming up or down, and missing the high it’s striving for. But chill the fuck out, man. It’s a LARF, innit? Or laff, if you’re from Manchester. What White Lines doesn’t do is take itself too seriously. It gives you sun, sea & sex, Spanish subtitles, sordid secrets & a sudden urge to see if you could afford a broken-down finca in San Carlos. Which is all I really want at the moment.
- White Lines, 10 episodes, Netflix
