That trio united by the love for art that lingers in ecstasy in front of Turner’s paintings, which cites the Russian authors and William Blake, he is portrayed only superficially. Nothing is really examined of their feelings, of Tom’s resentment towards Patrick, of the erosion of Marion’s innocence, of the cruelty of Patrick’s fate, of the complicated worries that must have tormented the protagonists of such a complicated and painful ménage a trois. My Policeman it is a tragic and empty melodrama. It is also inexplicable also how Marion and Patrick consider Tom a god, a sublime and almost otherworldly creature, when what we are shown is a handsome young man like Dorian Gray’s portrait and with zero charisma. Dawson, already spectacular in British series such as Secret Diary of a Call Girl, Ripper Street and especially in Luther it is, as mentioned, magnificent. It exudes magnetism, fragility, elegance, culture, sweetness and tragic stature. The more mature version of him, Rupert Everett, does what he can despite Grandage providing him with very few opportunities to shine, and it is unclear why he was not entrusted with the role of Tom, more suited to him by nature and physical likeness.
In the end, My Policeman is a great missed opportunity to tell a tragic story of love, deception, guilt, denial, illusion and injustice that was also a critique of stupidity and cruelty of homophobia, worn out by the lack of passion and soul, and undermined by the temptation – that, however, abounds – to exploit Styles’ visibility.