'Amanda Knox: The Untold Story' - a review of the Channel 5 TV show

Beware of any TV show with the title 'Untold Story'. For those who have been following the case, there was nothing new revealed in the Channel 5 show. I suppose the title draws in the viewers. One day Trading Standards will catch up with TV Executives and they will change the title to 'Amanda Knox: nothing new but quite slickly edited, go on, give it a look'.

Here's a quick summary of the case for the uninitiated. British student, Meredith Kercher, was murdered in Perugia in 2007. Her flatmate, Amanda Knox, and her boyfriend Raffaele Sollecito were accused. Under interrogation, Knox accused a bar owner. He had an alibi. DNA and fingerprints pointed to a man called Rudy Guede. The police and prosecution decided Rudy, Amanda and Raffaele were all in on it. All three were convicted of murder. Amanda and Raffaele were released on appeal.

There was an expert in DNA and a criminologist on hand to give their views, interviews with Knox's family and reconstructions. The Channel 5 show was slickly edited. No interview clip was allowed to stay on screen for more than five seconds at a time. If Jason Bourne had jumped through a window at one point, I would not have been surprised.

I've always fancied myself as a soothsayer. And I predict that they will still be making shows about this case for years. Because that's what happens when police, the forensics team and the prosecution botch a case so badly that any view on what happened is valid.

Let's start with the forensics team. The important thing about collecting DNA is to maintain the purity of the samples. The team in Perugia made fundamental errors. They didn't change gloves or instruments between collecting different samples, which can lead to contamination of the evidence. The DNA expert was quite clear about this. He had white hair, so he must be a wise man. And I've heard this before too.

The prosecution team were as bad. They concocted a story that the murder was the result of a sex game gone wrong. As all the participants in this case are attractive, it was an appealing idea to the public imagination, and especially to some of the more salacious newspapers. There's no physical evidence to support this. It's just a rattling good yarn.

What the show touched upon, but never fully explored, is the real problem with this case - Amanda Knox herself. How do I put this? Well, to put it kindly, the girl doesn't help herself.

I can accept that her accusing of an innocent man was a result of an over-zealous lawyer-free interrogation. But her behaviour afterwards: getting steamy shopping for underwear the next day, supposedly performing gymnastics at the police station; was bizarre. Her sister called her 'quirky'. There are other names - 'insensitive', 'stupid', 'immature'.

But that doesn't mean she's a murderer. If they filled the prisons with people like this there would be more in than out.

I feel like doing a Kevin Costner impression at this point: 'Let's stick to the evidence, people.'

'Amanda Knox: The Untold Story' was settling on the idea that the court of appeal got it right until the programme makers realised that this was not a very dramatic ending for a show called 'The Untold Story'. So, to end it, they dragged back that criminologist who averred that Rudy Guede was not a lone killer. There was a third person involved. Who, what or why was left hanging. If they had more evidence, they weren't telling.

Of course the real untold story is the commercial exploitation of this story yet to come. Knox is about to become a multi-millionaire.

Fine, I say. Sue the authorities for wrongful arrest. Take them to the cleaners.

But if the money comes via the glamour and glitz of Hollywood, or a rehearsed, full make-up, soft soaped interview on a glossy network magazine show, many will consider that a 'crime' in itself, irredeemably tarnishing the memory of her friend, Meredith Kercher.

The Gladiators Of Motorsport

I read a comment made on a youtube video. Underneath footage of the crash which killed Indycar driver, Dan Wheldon, there was speculation about when he died. A user wrote: he died at the circuit but they don't like to pronounce it there and then, they take him to a hospital first, so that the spectators don't compare it to gladiators at the Colosseum.

Days later and there was another fatality. Marco Simoncelli lost control of his MotoGP bike, slid across the track and was hit by Valentino Rossi and Colin Edwards, the impact knocking his helmet off.

Motorsport continually looks at ways to make racing conditions safer. And there has been a lot of progress. Take Formula One. In the 1960's fourteen drivers were killed. Yet no driver has lost his life since the death of Ayrton Senna in 1994.

But ask a racing fan, at a circuit, if he likes seeing crashes and he'll say 'yes', with an impish grin. Is this much different from the bloodlust of those gladiator fans?

I think so.

Whether we like it or not, there is a part of our psychology that wants to watch people flirting with danger, even if it's through splayed fingers. There is a 'can't watch, must watch' mentality that toys with us. It plays out our own relationship with mortality - the excitement, the adrenalin of living life on the edge in a tug-of-war with primal self-preservation. We need to live but are afraid to die.

But at least we have moved on since death was an integral part of gladiatorial games.

Crowds will still go to motorsport events and enjoy watching a crash. We can't help it. It's part of our make-up. It's natural. So long as our underlying humanity feels the pain, the guilt and the shame of those impulses should that crash be serious.

It's when that's absent that we need to worry.

How Do You Like Your Murders?

We are a ghoulish species by nature. When we hear of somebody's life being cut short by nefarious means it piques our interest. Queues of people will gather at the murder scene. Ask them why they're there and they find it hard to put into words.

I've always been interested in murder. I don't like it. But I am. A lot of people are, I tell myself. Crime fiction is one of the most popular genres. And I like writing it. Though I think that one of the reasons I write it is to diminish the feelings of guilt for being interested in the latest macabre slaying to hit the news.

There's an obvious reason why crime fiction is so popular. Life is uncertain. Very often it's unfair. Not so in crime fiction. The bad guys get caught by the good ones. When readers embark on their evening commute after a day of unjust treatment at the office, their detective of choice will reassure them that justice can still be done. It's comforting, restores our beliefs in good triumphing over evil.

And I'm the same.

But when it comes to real life crime I flip. I prefer the cases to be unsolved. I thought I was the only one. But speaking to people about it, they share my fascination with the unsolved.

If a crime is solved, it's not that I'm disappointed. It's good that the perpetrator is caught and pays for it. It's just that I lose interest.

I blame it on my childhood. No, my mother is not Myra Hindley. And my father always paid a parking fine.

But when I was growing up, The Yorkshire Ripper was prowling the north, killing women. There was widespread fear. He sent a cassette tape to the police. His voice, in very measured, reptilian tones taunted the police: 'I see you are still having no luck catching me.' He kept addressing the leader of the investigation by name: 'I reckon your boys are letting you down, George.'

It was the creepiest thing I'd ever heard. And although it turned out to be a hoax, it still makes me tense up when I hear it.

My fascination with unsolved murders does get out of hand sometimes. Even when a case has been solved, I look for inconsistencies, false confessions, contaminated evidence. Why is that? Perhaps I identify with a character popular in crime fiction, the barnstorming, maverick, contrary detective. He's the closest that crime fiction has to a superhero. He takes preconceived notions, even those backed by science, and burrows a tunnel through its sullied evidence till he reaches the light of truth.

In that way, I think our lurid obsession with murder cases can be justified - it's just our way of wanting to right wrongs. I hope.

Don't Make Me Feel Sorry For Dictators

Woke this morning to see footage of Gaddafi's blood drenched face and hollow eyes as he was surrounded by a horde of baying revolutionary fighters. Gaddafi's hand shook as he gently touched his face. When he saw the blood on it, he held it up to one of his captives. It could have been a plea for help. Or an accusation of cruelty.

For a moment, I felt sorry for Gaddafi. I didn't want to. And I have no right to. But they made me. They presented a pitiful, helpless, old man.

I'm not being self-righteous or indignant. It's easy at this safe distance to be impassive. None of my relatives was tortured or killed. My kith and kin were not on Pan Am Flight 103 that came down over Lockerbie. I'm not Libyan. I've never had to live my life under the capricious cruelty of a dictator. There's no excuse for feeling the slightest bit sorry for him.

But those pictures...

I should put myself in the position of one of Gaddafi's captors. Most of them are not trained soldiers. They are mechanics, builders, farmers, shopkeepers pressed into battle by a need to remove this evil despot. They've watched people die for the cause, been terrified, seen their friend lose limbs and die of terrible wounds. They finally find the man.

Emotions overtake reason.

Even if they want to see justice done, even if they want to see this man have his crimes set before him in the Hague, they can't control their feelings. Add to that the collective hysteria of the mob and they have little choice.

That's why justice should never be meted out by those directly affected. Justice is impassive, else it's not justice at all. It's revenge, which by its very nature is primal, not civilized.

What is an appropriate end for murderous dictators who have been responsible for the deaths of  thousands of people? Mussolini's body was hanged from a lamp-post, Hitler killed himself. Personally, I would let them rot in a cell. But that's easy for me to say.

Whatever the answer, please don't make me feel sorry for them.

Sherlock Holmes - The Best Teacher I Ever Had

Sherlock Holmes was a big influence on my early years. Miss Butler was encouraging with her English lessons and Miss Ellsworthy taught me history with enthusiasm. But, to be honest, I paid more attention to Sherlock Holmes.

The Sherlock Holmes adventures were the first books I read and enjoyed. Before that, reading was something I had to do at school. Learning my letters and discovering words via flash cards brought no great joy. It was a chore. Until I started reading Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's books. Then it all made sense. This reading lark could be fun.

I would lie on the bed all day devouring the stories, even turning down trips to the beach when on holiday. And I loved the beach.

Growing up, I remember a TV series began, starring Jeremy Brett as Sherlock. He was mean, moody, intractable. I loved it.

It was a seminal time for me. I was at an impressionable age, discovering girls. Unsure of myself. Although Sherlock didn't seem to have much success with women, for some reason I thought his demeanour would go down well with the fairer sex.

So I spent far too many of my formative years staring into the distance, trying to look mysterious (not realising that look was usually the result of Holmes being high on morphine).

It didn't work.

Women thought I was strange and backed right off. Can't blame them. But I couldn't understand it at the time.

It was only in later years that I realised that Sherlock Holmes probably wasn't a good role model. At the very least he was a manic depressive and, more likely than not, had Asperger's Syndrome.

So, instead, I became John Malkovich. This was a much more popular move. Women didn't flock but they didn't run away. I was John Malkovich for a good five years, until I discovered myself.

I forgot about poor Sherlock Holmes, going on to read what I thought were more 'grown up' novels.

Curiosity brought me back. Something of which Holmes would approve.

I re-read a couple of the stories and was stuck by how modern they are. I think it was because detective stories were still in their infancy when Conan Doyle was writing.  The first novel truly using the techniques of modern, detective fiction was called 'The Notting Hill Mystery' and saw the light of day in 1862. The first Sherlock Holmes story appeared in 1887. So the modern detective novel was only twenty-five-years-old when Sir Arthur Conan Doyle put Dr Watson's thoughts on paper.

And I think that's why I think they feel up-to-date.

They have the feel of somebody venturing through a forest, not knowing what will jump out at him next. Conan Doyle hadn't read hundred of detective novels. He hadn't heard that there's a formula to follow in creating these kinds of mysteries. It made me realise that formulas are wrong. They're a creative dead end. Stay fresh, like Sherlock Holmes.

Years later and Sherlock Holmes is still teaching me things. Thank you, sir.

Stories Should Never End

I have a problem with endings. Novels, TV dramas, movies - endings annoy me the most. I'm a largely tolerant man, liberal by leaning, prone to walking away from an argument, not raising my voice even if I'm in the right. But endings.

When I was a kid, my favourite TV show was one of Gerry Anderson's puppet shows, called 'Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons'. The premise of the show was that Martians were threatening to invade the earth. The only thing standing between them and invasion was 'Spectrum'. This was an organisation much like the CIA, FBI, MI5 and MI6 rolled into one. Yet they were based on what looked like an aircraft carrier that floated in the clouds.

Captain Scarlet was one of Spectrum's agents doing battle with the Mysterons. The enemy would kill people, then take over their bodies to bring the world to its knees. Captain Scarlet was once captured by the Mysterons. But he managed to escape. Yet the experience changed him. He became indestructible. Literally. And everybody knew it. It was in the theme song. Towards the end of most episodes, Captain Scarlet would foil the Mysterons but die in the attempt. Then one of the other agents, usually Captain Blue, would stretch out a cheeky grin and say, "I don't think we've seen the last of him."

I loved it. Until I realised the show's fatal flaw. Captain Scarlet couldn't die. It was physically impossible. Shoot him, stab him, drop him in a vat of boiling tar, smother him with bubble wrap, forget it. The Mysterons had carried out some experiment on him and he couldn't die.

I don't know how old I was but I realised that this was a problem for me. Maybe it was a sign that I was growing up. But what was the point of a drama in which you knew a very important part of the outcome from the beginning? So I stopped watching it.

I started watching Hollywood movies. James Bond films were the best. I liked Sean Connery. He was all that 007 should be. But then I realised that, hang on, James Bond never dies either. Of course, he has to go through hell (though strictly speaking he should die first to do that) but bullets glance off him and occasionally penetrate him. Yet he soon recovers.

I moved into my teenage years. I watched other films. And would you believe it, the hero never died in those either. It's not important in every book or film. It's mainly a problem in thrillers or action adventures. When I pointed this out to my friend, he said that it's the journey that's important. But who cares about the journey when the destination is so prosaic. In those circumstances, the better the journey the more of a tease that's never fulfilled with an inventive arrival.

So, what am I saying? Should the hero bite the dust? Take the fall? Lick the gravel that lies six feet under? Yes, occasionally. Look what Hitchcock did in 'Psycho'. He didn't even wait till the end. He killed off the main protagonist of the film's first reel a third of the way through the film.

Okay, I get it. I understand that the world might well be a miserable place if all our heroes ended up not saving the world, not riding off into the distance on the back of their trusty steed, silhouetted against the sunset. So what's the compromise?

I liked the way they ended the Sopranos. Everybody expected a dramatic finale after so many years, maybe a bloodbath like Scarface. But Tony went for a meal with his family. They sat down and ordered. A couple of the other customers went to the bathroom. And that was it. Roll credits. Inventive, satisfying, unexpected and very real. Okay, Tony didn't die. But nor did he triumph. Somewhere in between.

There are other ways to end stories too. You can go down the rou... urgh... umph...

(Unfortunately we have to report that Mark was is unable to finish this article. He was shot in the back of the head by a masked intruder. We hope he would have approved.)

Mark Capell is the author of 'Run, Run, Run', a novel available from Amazon and Amazon U.K. It has a very original ending.

Amanda Knox - Guilty By Appearance

I've had the same conversation with so many people today about Amanda Knox. Each one goes something like this:

"Knox has been freed then."
"Yeah. The scientific evidence was pretty flawed."
"True. Must have been hell for her."
"Sure. Young woman locked up for a crime she didn't commit."
"You know what?"
"What?"
"One thing I can't get over. She just looks guilty."

If Knox could hear what people are saying about her in my neck of the woods, she'd hear these words reverberating around her head. 'There's just something about her', 'It's her eyes', 'She doesn't look innocent', 'She's sneering at us'.

Police back in Victorian times had a failsafe method of detecting whether you were a member of the criminal classes. It all depended on the shape of your head and the quality of your features. It was called physiognomy.  And it was state of the art - having a unibrow, for instance, was a sure sign of guilt. There were men with callipers measuring the distance between your eyes and the size of your forehead. It was important to the Victorians because they believed that being a criminal was something in your phsycial make-up. It was genetic, if they'd known what genes were.

But we've moved on from that. We've progressed through real science. In our modern world it's what moves one generation on from the previous one. And there's no scientific evidence that puts Amanda at the scene of the crime, Meredith's bedroom.There's flimsy, circumstantial evidence, heresay, and a forced confession without witnesses. But none of Knox's DNA is there. It's difficult to murder somebody and not leave any DNA behind. There's plenty of Rudy Guede's.

So why does that little voice in our heads keep saying she's guilty? Look at any photo of her when she's not smiling. The hooded eyes. When eyes are that sunken, they have got to be hiding nefarious thoughts and deeds. They look like the entrance to caves that hold weapons of mass destruction. Then there are the eyebrows that arch in towards those eyes, as if tipping us off that she has secrets she's keeping from us.

But this is all nonsense. We are creatures of the scientific world. We are rational beings. We must banish the beliefs of our medieval forefathers. Yet they keep raising themselves up from their burial grounds to tap us on the shoulder. 'Look how far apart her eyes are. That's not right.' Shut up. 'Look at the pouty mouth, offering the promise of sexual favours.' Be quiet.

I want to be a man of the modern world. I want to think logically. I want to deny my superstitious ancestry. But something keeps dragging my mind back into the pit. At least I know that's what's happening. I can live with it.

Enjoy your freedom Amanda Knox. R.I.P. Meredith Kercher.

Mark Capell is the author of 'Run, Run, Run', available from Amazon and Amazon U.K.

Things That Sparkle

I was looking across at Putney Bridge in London with a friend when she pointed at the river and said, 'Sparkles.' I followed her finger to see the light bouncing off the water, each point of light looking like a diamond bobbing on the surface. She explained that she'd liked things that sparkled ever since she was a kid, especially the sun on the river.

Things that sparkle. I thought about it. It was a beautifully innocent remark from a person who hadn't lost contact with the child within. Me? That's a different matter. I've always been suspicious of things that sparkle. I associate them with the meretricious. A few diamonds around a woman's neck looks elegant. But that only makes me think about the history of the necklace. They've been discovered in prehistoric times. Nobody can be sure why women started wearing them. But the necklaces were often buried with the body. So they could well have been status symbols, reinforcing my cynicism.

What about people? J.F.K., he sparkled. The smile dazzled, the speeches conveyed passion and intelligence. He was a new breed of politician, aware of the power of the media. But seemingly sincere. Yet sweep aside the glittering veneer and you find that L.B.J. passed more civil rights legislation and Nixon conducted the withdrawal from Vietnam. That said, his heart was in the right place, wasn't it? It was tough back then. America hadn't even started to tackle the issues of racism properly. The first steps out of the cabin into a cold environment are always the hardest to take. But when I think he's retained his lustre, I remember the lust. Poor Jacqueline. She sparkled.

Princess Diana. She sparkled more than the celebrities that still swim in her wake. She carried out a lot of charity work, changing attitudes to AIDS and landmines in particular. But she also withdrew her patronage from a lot of charities when her personal life hit the skids. She manipulated the media - courting them when she wanted them to tell her side of the story about her marriage - then complaining about press voracity when she'd personally finished feeding the beast. I'm not trying to diminish her achievements. She was more of a saint than most of us. But she could sin with the best of them too. She was a real person.

Who sparkles today? To be honest, I can't think of anybody. Movie stars? No. Too concerned with their career paths, appearing in the latest franchise, to stand above any other group of thrusting professionals. Politicians? Too giddy from spinning to locate their own beliefs. Musicians? The ones that might sparkle with talent are made invisible from the glare of talent shows that exhibit starlets who twinkle for about as long as their songs last. You rarely find sparkles on TV. I once wandered into a bar in the Latin Quarter in Paris, drawn in by the heartfelt gusto of a torch singer, her voice echoing on the cobbled stones outside. She sparkled but only in and around that bar. She didn't reach a million living rooms.

And perhaps that's the point. These days, when the careers of the stars are managed as assiduously as their diaries, we shouldn't look in their direction for our sparkles. Or to the politicians, or to the princesses, or anybody we've been told to respect. Instead, we should keep our ears open when passing a bar. Or our eyes on the river at just the right hour of a summer's morning. That's where we'll find our sparkles.

Mark Capell is the author of 'Run, Run, Run', a novel available at Amazon and Amazon U.K.