1 day ago
6
On a well-maintained driveway in an unremarkable suburb of Dublin, a small man in a sleeveless jumper is professing a desire to expand his horizons. “I feel myself getting quieter. More invisible,” says Leonard, blinking up at the night sky. “One thing’s led to another and now I feel like if I don’t do something I’ll just carry on in this …” – he searches for a fitting encapsulation of his life – “… minor, harmless existence”. Hungry Paul – Leonard’s best and, indeed, only friend – considers the implications of this announcement. “Nothing wrong with that, though,” he replies, bathrobe flapping thoughtfully in the breeze. “Better than trying to make a mark on the world only to wind up defacing it.”
For those exhausted by the bluster and rat-tat-tat of today’s TV terrain, here is Leonard and Hungry Paul with a foil blanket and warming mug of Ribena.
Like its harmless protagonists, Leonard and Hungry Paul – a six-part comedy written by Richie Conroy and Mark Hodkinson based on Rónán Hession’s understated 2019 novel – takes a dim view of modern life; peering disapprovingly over its prematurely middle-aged glasses at anything in the way of unnecessary noise, sudden movements or – heaven forfend – an abundance of ambition. The series is, instead, an ode to introversion; a quiet celebration of those content to pootle around below the parapet. And yet. Leonard (another sublimely idiosyncratic turn from Alex “The End of the F***ing World/Andor” Lawther) is unsettled. He feels a creeping “need to open the doors and windows of my life … a little”. The recent death of his beloved mother has whisked the rug from under his slippers and the 32-year-old ghost writer now finds himself questioning the choices that have brought him to where he is (single; defensively moustached; working on a range of children’s encyclopedias for a man who signs off emails with the phrase “ciao for now”).
And so Leonard launches himself on a quest for emotional fulfilment, with the slightly bolder, if no less socially uncomfortable, Hungry Paul (Laurie Kynaston) serving as his confidante, life coach and co-conspirator in a weekly board games evening that serves both as symposium (“Is the pool warm because kids pee in it, or do kids pee in it because it’s warm?”) and refuge.
(Why “Hungry” Paul? No idea. The origin of the nickname appears lost to the mists of time. Perhaps the postal worker once ate a sandwich unusually quickly, or responded to a socially fraught incident by panic-peeling four scotch eggs with his teeth).
Into Leonard’s gentle world cartwheels Shelley (Jamie-Lee “Derry Girls” O’Donnell) a new, spring-loaded colleague who cheerily offers to kill Leonard’s appalling boss (Paul Reid) during the office fire drill. That whooshing sound you can hear is Leonard’s gentle world being turned upside down.
Elsewhere in the first episode of a series driven less by plot and more by what the under-30s may refer to as “vibes”, we meet Hungry Paul’s dad (the ever-wonderful Lorcan Cranitch), a battered sofa of a man who secretly watches, records then replays daytime quiz shows to impress his adoring wife with his general knowledge.
Shepherding us through all this minor-key niceness is a narrator that sounds very much like – and, indeed, very much is – Julia Roberts. Yes, Julia Roberts. If you are thinking, “surely the inclusion of a major Hollywood star is at odds with the series’ unshowy MO and initially serves only as a distraction?” you would be correct. Still, Roberts acquits herself well, and lines such as “Leonard’s problem is that he lacks a ‘eureka’ face” help ensure that early misgivings give way if not quite to appreciation, then at least acceptance.
But that’s enough grumbling for now. Leonard and Hungry Paul’s heart is in the right place: the right place being “sitting on a park bench next to the Detectorists, pointing out its favourite duck”. It’s a series that ambles along in its sleeveless jumper, occasionally looking up at the stars, occasionally down at its slippers, quietly confident that there is nothing in the world as cheering as spending time in the company of good friends.
Open the doors and windows of your life, a little, and let it in.
