Oh, Ludwig – how do I really like thee? Let me depend the methods.
Or at least enable me to carry your favorite biro as you scurry round Cambridge in a state of rumpled exasperation, like a Womble that’s simply been chased out of Ryman following a misunderstanding over a hole-punch.
Missed the primary collection of this endearingly nerdish crime caper? Panic not. The second arrives bearing that almost all conventional of housewarming presents – a recap. And very welcome it’s too, given Ludwig’s fondness for befuddling conspiracies, impenetrable ciphers, and scenes wherein corduroy-clad David Mitchell factors at a graph whereas spluttering issues like “the whole thing is dichotomous!”.
The recap, then: Mitchell is John “Ludwig” Taylor, a crossword-setting introvert who has been posing as his equivalent twin, James – a DCI – with the intention to uncover the explanations for the latter’s mysterious disappearance. Though rumbled by the fuzz, John’s extraordinary knack for fixing low-stakes murders has seen the bumbler employed as a “crime scene consultant”.
Meanwhile, James has left cryptic clues re the covered-up homicide of a journalist named Sinclair. The key to the conundrum, it appears, lies in Sinclair’s innumerable information, which at present reside in James’s spouse Lucy’s (Anna Maxwell Martin) spare room.
And now? John is diligently organising the folders into what he calls, with touching fondness, “my piles”.
“Do this enough times,” he explains, “and we’ll find the one file that Sinclair died for and the reason for my brother’s disappearance!” A pause. “Probably!”
All clear? Splendid. And so to the theatre, the place a narky pensioner has been stabbed by certainly one of her daughters. But which one? “I did it,” honks Portia (Doon Mackichan). Oh no she didn’t, counter-honks her sister, Patricia (Rebecca Front). “It was me.” The motive? “Mummy wouldn’t let me have a bichon frisé.”
John is flustered. “This one’s really hard,” he splutters, his expression, as at all times, that of a mole startled to study that the final UK department of Tie Rack closed in 2013 and never, as he was satisfied, 2021.
“Whichever one didn’t do it knows that the other one did and is protecting her. While the one that did do it knows we can’t prove that the one who didn’t do it, didn’t do it.”
There is a number of this type of factor in Ludwig. That is, John holding forth on the impossibly convoluted ins and outs of every preposterous case-of-the-week, oblivious to the bewilderment of all involved. Frankly, there’s not a lot room right here for the armchair detective. Magnifying glasses will stay unwielded; pipes resolutely un-puffed. It’s just too idiosyncratic. Too … Ludwig. Instead, the enjoyable lies within the sight of John boggling at every low-stakes homicide earlier than dissolving into radiant, childlike grins as he realises he has – gosh, actually? How marvellous! – solved mentioned low-stakes homicide all by himself. How? A mixture, often, of a) accident b) preternatural boffinry and c) shouting about his piles right into a cretaceous-era Nokia.
Like all cosy crime collection, Ludwig is as much as its elbow patches in nostalgia. There is a tangible craving for a time earlier than the impertinences of recent drama; a time of corniced accents and iced-sponge values, of labradors in padded gilets upbraiding menials on gravel driveways. But Ludwig is as sharp as it’s cuddly, its bobbly pullover concealing a script (by collection creator Mark Brotherhood) that revels in wordplay and the infinite micro-horrors of social awkwardness.
Best of all is the ever-expanding friendship between John and the gloriously direct Lucy, who has lastly and rightly been elevated from underused supporting character to giddily eccentric co-lead. And what enjoyable Maxwell Martin is having; bounding round Cambridge in her dinky ankle socks, her schoolgirl bob bouncing with investigative zeal.
John and Lucy are clearly excellent for each other. So a lot so that you simply sometimes end up wishing James would stay buggered-off to let nature take its course (even when any exertion within the spare room division would play havoc with John’s piles).
How best to explain Ludwig’s mix of whimsical thriller and cerebral silliness? Midsomer Murders meets Monk? No, that may be terrible. Jonathan Geek? If something, that may be worse. Instead, let’s depart it at this: Ludwig is Ludwig, and hurrah for that. Long could it bumble.