SPOILERS GALORE!

Richard Armitage has, in relatively recent years, become leading man material thanks largely to star turns on Netflix and other streaming services. In the past decade or so, he has often been cast as a solid, valiant seeker of truth, justice and missing loved ones; it's easy to forget that he once played terrifying psychopath Francis Dollarhyde on NBC's Hannibal. (That was back in the days when NBC--and other networks-- actually had the cojones to air a series like Hannibal). Was there always that hint of depravity lurking just behind his eyes? That is the question I asked myself during his latest Netflix outing, Obsession, based on Josephine Hart's 1991 novel, Damage. Originally adapted for the big screen by French filmmaker Louis Malle in 1992, the title has been changed but much else remains the same. Heavy-hitters Jeremy Irons and Juliette Binoche were cast as the ill-famed lovers in Malle's version, with Miranda Richardson and Rupert Graves offering able support as aggrieved family members. But while the book, the movie and the series have strong similarities, they are still very different things. 

In the Netflix version, Armitage plays Dr. William Farrow, a wealthy and successful British surgeon who has made recent headlines by separating conjoined twins at birth. He is celebrated in the press and--thanks to his influential father-in-law--by members of the House of Commons. William's wife, Ingrid (Indira Varma) has her own flourishing career as a barrister, while their son, Jay (Rish Shah) is a medical student. Sally, their daughter (Sonera Angel), seems to be on hand solely to function as--I'm not sure what--the show's moral conscience? 

When Jay announces that things are heating up with Anna (Charlie Murphy), his elusive new girlfriend, the family members are intrigued. To them--and to Jay--she is a mystery woman with really bad hair and a secretive nature. Indeed, she advises Jay not to pry into her personal affairs, and he--naively--obliges. When Anna (sans Jay) not-so-randomly shows up at a party being thrown in William's honor, her come-hither glance sends him scurrying across the room to--oh so sensuously--feed her an olive snatched from a martini glass. Conveniently, the good doctor's wife is also running late for the soiree, giving him plenty of time to stare soulfully into Anna's eyes. Each, it seems, knows who the other is but that doesn't deter them from forging a forbidden connection. With promises to keep, Anna slinks back into the night as William collapses on a comfy chair and stares sightlessly into the void left by her sudden departure. For some reason, he seems completely shattered by this public encounter. Or so we are led to believe. What is wrong with this man?

Ingrid finally shows up at the party and, deeming a still weak-in-the-knees William to be drunk, hauls him back to the house and puts him to bed. It isn't long before we see William sneaking across town for a secret rendezvous with his son's lover. They go at it on the hardwood floor, and after that, they go at it on the rug and on every piece of furniture at hand. In fact, before Ingrid's inevitable headbanging episode near the end, there is much up-against-the-wall-banging going on betwixt her husband and their son's girlfriend. As will happen, things progress quickly. Soon enough, a blindfolded Anna can be found waiting patiently in front of her unlocked door for William to arrive and ravish her. Obligingly, William ties up Anna, after which they comingle heatedly on the floor of this dark, rather sinister flat. If this sounds a trifle kinky, it is just that: a trifle. This is not The Story of O, after all. 

Anything can happen within these four walls but nothing goes outside, Anna informs William. She pretends to make rules for their "relationship" but William constantly breaks these rules and then pretends to be contrite. He is an unspeakable twat. So is she, come to think of it. 

When Jay takes Anna on a romantic weekend getaway to Paris, his jealous father follows and stalks them from outside their hotel, finally forcing a seemingly indignant Anna to confront William in the street, where she is then dragged into a nearby alley for a furtive shagging next to a dumpster. After pleading migraine, Anna is whisked back to London by the clueless Jay, while William, left alone in Paris, manages to rent their recently vacated hotel room. Apparently unaware that hotel bedding is routinely changed following each guests' departure, William sniffs the bedspread, the sheets, the pillow cases and throw pillows, hoping to catch some fleeting whiff of this bewitching, unfathomable creature in need of a competent hairdresser. He kicks off his shoes, rips open his trousers and proceeds to make love....furiously....to the mattress. 

Oh....the humanity!

Back in London, Jay proposes to Anna and her first impulse is to call up William and ask if it's okay for her to accept his son's offer of marriage. This way you and I can be together anytime we want! she whispers. Ugh, I think. By now, it's clear that Anna is as obsessed with William as he is with her, although it's never clear why either should be laboring under this shared delusion. 

These two are the worst!

Amidst all the incognito coupling, the suspicious glances and the pseudo-intellectual gobbledygook  ("You must learn to love the questions!"), William begins receiving anonymous text messages from an unknown number claiming to know all about his adulterous tryst. Uh-oh, but who can it be? 

Meanwhile, Ingrid decides to throw an engagement party for the happy couple (Anna and Jay, that is) at her father's sprawling country estate. What could go wrong? Anna's estranged mother, common and problematic, shows up to serve some not-inconsequential tea while Ingrid gives a speech on the grand staircase about spouses keeping secrets from one another. What the...? Does Ingrid know about William's affair with Anna? Is she the one sending those text messages? From here, things go about as well as one would expect, although that doesn't stop William and Anna from taking a little break from all the engagement party foofaraw and engaging in a garden-path quickie in the back yard. Okay, what I want to know is how they do all this rolling around on the grass, on the floor, against back-alley walls, and never have a wrinkle or stain or spot of dirt on their clothes? 

So, dear God, these people are so tiresome I thought the end would never come! Having seen (and mostly forgotten) the original movie, I had a pretty good idea of where things were heading although one can never be sure, given the liberties taken with contemporary adaptations of certain authors' work (A. Christie comes to mind). Unfortunately, there were no surprises in Obsession except for the one utterly stone cold remark uttered by Armitage near the final fadeout (the show's actual ending is more enigmatic, suggesting--maybe--that old habits die hard). 

With only 4 episodes of, roughly, 35 minutes each, Obsession seems like it goes on forever. Interestingly, the first episode flies by in a flash, allowing no time for development of this--ultimately--fatal attraction: it just comes out of left field and hammers on until the finale. For me, as a viewer, the mutual obsession of this 50-ish surgeon and his late-20's paramour never gained traction as a believable plot element, much less an essential one. Their performances are good enough, I suppose, but they have zero chemistry as a couple: Ingrid and William are much sexier in their initial scenes together. And, perhaps intentionally, Anna is much too remote to emotionally connect with anyone in the series. Later on, we find out reasons for this but, by then, I detested the character so much that I didn't care. 

I kept wondering who does shit like this? I mean, I remember reading Dear Abby and Letters to Penthouse back in the day so I know this type of thing does happen, but why is it happening with these two people? Neither Anna nor William are at all likeable, or seem remotely human; what's worse, neither one at any time seems to be actually enjoying what they're doing. So what's the point? Why, I ask again, why? 

The supporting players are badly served by their underdeveloped roles. Rish Shah's Jay makes brief appearances here and there as the cuck whose long-delayed come-to-Jesus moment ends in tragedy, but, as written, the character comes off as being something of a nitwit. Similarly, Indira Varma does her best as the wife and mother in the piece but the script doesn't do her any favors either. And poor Sonera Angel. Sure, as Sally, she's got a couple of scenes but they started out more promising than they turned out to be. I also spent way too much time wondering about Sally's pronouns. And if the never-seen "Kelly" was Sally's ex-girlfriend or ex-boyfriend? And what is with Sally's hairdo? Really, whoever did the hair on this series needs to go back to beauty school. 

For whatever it's worth, Obsession is chock full of sex scenes though none of them are particularly erotic. There's a full-frontal bit by Armitage, which is impressive if you have a quick eye. What? You thought I was watching this for the eloquent script? 

What apparently worked in the book, and may have worked in the movie, simply does not work in this series. Netflix missed the boat on this one. We made it through to the end only because it was like seeing something you can't turn away from. Also because C kept expecting someone--anyone--to get murdered at some point and turn Obsession into a serviceable thriller. No such luck. 

At less than 3 hours, Obsession is an often trying, not terribly satisfying, way of killing a Friday afternoon. Put it this way: it was better than doing the ironing.