When the whistle blows

TV REVIEW:Whistleblower RTÉ1, Sun and Mon, Fiona's Story BBC1, Sunday, The Afternoon Show RTÉ1, Monday to Friday, Midday TV3, Monday to Friday

SO, AT LAST, the autumn schedule has truly arrived on RTÉ, announcing itself with the force of a felled oak in the national broadcaster's screening of Whistleblower, a superbly well-dramatised documentary about obstetrician and gynaecologist Dr Michael Neary, and events in Drogheda's Lourdes Hospital. Between 1974 and 1998, Neary is understood to have carried out 129 Caesarean hysterectomies, one hysterectomy for every 37 sections he performed (in other comparable hospitals, the average was one in 300).

Dramatising events that took place more than a decade ago, this precise, meticulously researched piece (which, presumably, was a litigious minefield), portraying a community and hospital where loyalty and respect for a patrician, almost God-like authority figure remained unchallenged, felt courageously close to the bone of the cobwebbed national psyche. Set in an era when the walls of our darkly stained institutions were beginning to crumble, Whistleblowercleverly honed in on the experience of an "outsider", the anonymous young midwife who had been trained outside the State and who risked her career to expose the doctor's shocking practices.

With the consequences of Neary's glib surgical effervescence still being felt by many of his former patients (some of whom had their medical records removed), and with Neary himself retired and living on a full pension (having been finally struck off the medical register), this story demanded sober and responsible handling, which, thanks to Rob Heyland's conscientious script and Dermot Boyd's careful direction, it got. Nevertheless, this was a highly emotional, shockingly visceral and deeply moving drama, and if you've ever found yourself on the receiving end of a scalpel in a maternity hospital (or not, as the case may be), the early scenes of young, vulnerable women on the surgical table being gutted like parched fish, and the heart-rending pleas of one midwife (herself having had a section under epidural), begging Neary not to remove her womb, were almost unbearably painful to watch.

Central to this scrupulously authentic-looking drama's success was a terrific cast of actors in both minor and major roles, revolving around a meditatively calm and chillingly controlled portrayal of Neary by Stanley Townsend. Among them were Adrian Dunbar as a resolute health board administrator, Emma Stansfield as the courageous young whistleblowing midwife, Michèle Forbes as a malevolently hostile receptionist and Charlene McKenna with a poignantly gritty portrayal of a young mother consumed by irrational but all-too-understandable self-loathing after the unnecessary removal of her womb.

The problem the production faced, though, was the character of Neary himself. Having never elucidated on his rationale, it is possible that, to this day, he sees himself as the victim of a hysterical new health board - and, to the production's credit, its makers eschewed the temptation to invent a soap-opera medical monster. Television audiences, who are primed to receive psychological explanations and may have been looking to glean some understanding of Neary's motives, came away empty-handed, but this was an outstanding drama nevertheless, and that is was made is perhaps a sign maybe it is a sign of our collective progress.

HAVING WATCHED THE first part of Whistleblower, I (perhaps a little unwisely) commanded my trusty remote control to whisk me, straightaway, from RTÉ to BBC's one-off drama, Fiona's Story, another if-you've-been-affected-by-these-issues-call-the-helpline productions (which seem to proliferate as soon as the leaves redden and the thunder rolls).

Vaunted as "a work of fiction inspired by many true stories", the play concerned itself with the events befalling the family of well-heeled professional Simon (Jeremy Northam) after he is arrested for viewing child pornography on the internet. It was a potent idea for a drama, the realisation of which somehow failed to ignite the emotions.

The titular Fiona, Simon's willowy, cashmered wife, was played by Gina McKee, a lovely and obviously intelligent actress who, on this occasion, appeared to be drowning in a kind of oatmealy Birkenstock sensitivity as she loomed around her tasteful, arty house in a vintage kimono and whispered her incredulity about her tweedy husband's uncharacteristic behaviour over the warm Aga and warmer Pinot Grigio. Maybe it was a consequence of having been emotionally assaulted by Whistleblower'srobust honesty, but, after about 15 minutes of Fiona's mournful bleating and her strained loyalty to her deeply irritating and childlike husband, I began to feel like abandoning her gloomy clan to their shocking-pink portico, their sash windows and their slouch couches, and going to bed.

I resent statements of the bleedin' obvious masquerading as dramatic dialogue: if we have to be retold that internet pornography is not a victimless crime and reminded that every child is as precious and valuable as our own little bundles of joy slumbering away under their football duvets, then it's certainly going to take more than pretty television drama with a well-manicured social conscience to make this world a safer place.

In the end, Fiona, having lied to social services to protect her ghastly mate, managed to wake up and smell the rot festering inside her cosy, sexless marriage and found the courage to throw tweedy-boy out on his corduroy ass. But by then one had forgotten that one was viewing a hard-hitting social drama rather than a lifestyle magazine or a paint catalogue, and, overcome by the torpor of fictional angst, I gleefully succumbed to counting sheep.

'WHICH PHRASE DESCRIBES heavy rain? Raining cats and dogs, or . . . raining cats and donkeys?" Having grown up in an era when the only thing on the box before 6pm was a wilting aspidistra and the test card, I find watching TV in the afternoon brings on deeply rooted feelings of guilt and shame (surely to God I should be polishing the cat or at least making a stab at a sit-up). But with the cabin-feverish offspring back at school and the dismal summertime schedule packed away in mothballs until next year's monsoon season, daytime TV has awoken from its hibernation to fill the stay-at-home nation's vacant, lonely hours. With helpful tips on saving your housekeeping money to spend on inappropriate lingerie (I'm making that bit up), advice on how to shore up your visage with "petit pois"-sized applications of foundation primer (that bit's real), hints on removing nasty stains and tedious husbands (what do you think?), and, of course, the ubiquitous 30-minute recipes for delicious and nutritious family meals, the genre is simmering away nicely.

Actually, RTÉ's flagship daytime programme, The Afternoon Show, which I tuned into a couple of times this week, has a pretty addictive formula and, insofar as I found myself checking the Aertel pages for Domini Kemp's recipes, turning off the air-conditioning in the car to save petrol (who'd have thought it?) and almost blinding myself in my enthusiasm for a pair of smoky gothic peepers, it seems my paltry little life might benefit from my new enthusiasm. Now in its fourth season, the programme's regular presenters, Bláithnaid Ní Chofhaigh and Sheana Keane, are well into their groove and, with regular guest contributors, offer a breezily busy show.

But, a little like Bláithnaid's brain-teaser above, it's probably fair to say that daytime magazine TV is not rocket science: what works, works - simply dice up your celebrity gossip, lifestyle, health, fashion, babies, sex and weather, and saute to a pulp.

MEANWHILE, TV3'S NEW daily chat-fest, Midday, eschews the more formulaic knit-yourself-out-of-recession approach, instead offering a strangely stagnant and uncomfortable talk-show format hosted by TV3 regulars Alan Cantwell, Colette Fitzpatrick and Martin King, who, joined by a couple of guests a day (this week's list included Louis Copeland and Paddy Power), sit around a kidney-shaped table for 50 minutes and interrupt each other.

So far, the topics up for discussion have been dully predictable: are teenagers lazy? Should I send my child to a private school? Should I buy that debs dance dress or wipe out Mexico's national debt? It's not that these subjects aren't worthy of debate, but on the days I viewed, discussion after discussion was smothered at birth by anodyne consensus, with everyone being nice and reasonable, and the debate sparkling about as brightly as a pair of unscaled dentures.

I'd rather have watched it on the radio.