Small Prophets – The BBC’s latest drama proves that subtlety is dead, buried, and probably charging council tax
There was a time when the BBC made programmes about lions, Spitfires, or men called Nigel quietly repairing dry stone walls.
Now we have Small Prophets.
Which, judging by the title alone, sounds less like a television series and more like something you’d buy from a crystal shop in Totnes for £14.99. “Handcrafted ethically sourced prophets, now in travel size.”
But no. It’s a drama.
And like many modern BBC dramas, it begins not with anything exciting — not a car chase, not an explosion, not even a decent punch-up — but with a lot of meaningful staring out of windows while it rains.
Always rain.
Apparently, Britain is now a permanent car wash.
What is it about?
The premise, roughly, is this:
A group of ordinary people start experiencing “visions” — flashes of the future, tiny prophecies, whispers of what’s about to happen — and must navigate the moral, emotional and existential consequences of knowing things they really shouldn’t.
Which sounds thrilling.
Except it isn’t.
Because instead of using their psychic powers to, say, win the lottery, rob Fort Knox, or prevent a catastrophic motorway pile-up, they mostly use them to:
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have long conversations in kitchens
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look worried
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argue about feelings
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and occasionally cry near a kettle
It’s less Minority Report and more Minor Domestic Disagreement.
The pacing (or lack of anything resembling it)
The first episode moves at roughly the same speed as my aunt reversing a Nissan Micra into a tight parking space.
Carefully.
Painfully.
With three stops for emotional processing.
By episode two, you begin to suspect the director has mistaken “slow burn” for “nothing happening whatsoever”.
There’s a scene — and I timed this — where a man simply walks down a corridor for what feels like seven years. Not metaphorically. I aged.
By the time he reached the door, I needed ibuprofen and a lie down.
The acting
To be fair, the cast are very good.
Very good at looking miserable.
If the BAFTAs ever introduce “Best Performance While Staring Grimly Into Middle Distance”, this lot will sweep the board.
Everyone whispers.
Nobody smiles.
Even the dog looks like it’s contemplating tax fraud.
At one point, I actually shouted at the screen:
“JUST SOMEONE HAVE A BISCUIT AND CHEER UP.”
But no.
More whispering.
The BBC Problem
This is the thing the BBC does now.
They take a cracking idea — people predicting the future — and instead of making it fun or dangerous or ridiculous, they wrap it in:
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grey lighting
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acoustic guitar music
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trauma
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and three hours of emotional monologues
It’s like they’re allergic to joy.
Give Netflix this premise, and you’d get car crashes and conspiracies.
Give the BBC it and you get Susan from accounts having a panic attack in a Co-op car park.
The good bits (yes, there are some)
To be fair:
When the prophecies actually kick in, it’s properly tense.
There are moments where you lean forward and think:
“Ooooh, now we’re talking.”
But then immediately…
Cut to:
Someone is making tea.
Again.
Honestly, Britain must consume 94% of the world’s tea in this show alone.
Final verdict
Small Prophets isn’t bad.
It’s just… exhausting.
It’s the television equivalent of listening to someone explain their dream.
Deep.
Meaningful.
And you absolutely wish they’d stop.
If you like slow, thoughtful, slightly gloomy existential drama, you’ll love it.
If you want excitement, chaos, or even a single car exploding…
You’re better off watching the weather forecast.
Rating:
Three nervous kettles out of five
Good. Worth watching. But bring caffeine.
And possibly therapy.
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