Head On

I resisted going anywhere near HBO's 'In Treatment' for ages, as I was sure it would irritate the hell out of me. We shrinks are like politicians, actors and doctors in believing ourselves to be the most fascinating people on the planet, but even I wondered how much interest could be sustained from an entire series based around a series of professional encounters between a typically malfunctioning middle-aged white male therapist, and a small selection of his patients. By definition, all the 'action' takes place elsewhere, and is merely reported and ruminated on by Himself and his unhappy charges. Who outside of the Tavistock Institute could care?

And then there was the presence of Gabriel Byrne, as the therapist. Lovely, rumpled, owl-faced uber-Celt Gabriel Byrne. I really wasn't sure I could cope with him, physical reincarnation that he is of my father's late crony 'Jags' Herffernan. Jags was a dipsomaniac surgeon from Dun Laoghaire, who once ate a human placenta for a bet. He would turn up at our house at random hours, oblivious to the fact that his hospital shifts did not often coincide with our family routine, and he would sit and stare at my Mother with the same crinkly eyes and doomed  melancholic smile that have served Gabriel so much better.  I was terrified of him, especially when he scooped me onto his knee and threatened to lock me in the back of an ambulance and take me back to Ireland to see my grandfather, who I hated. Hence the sight of Gabriel has always signified 'psychotic butcher' to me rather than 'tormented shrink', so I knew I was going to have trouble believing in him.

But of course, as it turned out, I was gripped and captivated. My projective identification needs were fully met as I eagerly recognised, in Gabriel's five tormented and conflicted patients (one warring couple, one damaged teen, two destructive singletons) some eerily familiar variations of individuals who have passed through my own consulting room over the last twenty years. And of course, some of Gabriel's own responses (thankfully not all), both personal and professional, brought an uncomfortable heat to my cheeks once or twice. Fortunately my clinical supervisor is nowhere as annoying as his seems to be, nor do I have quite as confused a relationship with them, but as a portrayal of what it's like to do this kind of barmy work, it was as honest and as accurate as I've seen.

Of course in getting so engrossed I've only borne out my own narcissistic point about how easily we shrinks get captivated by our own reflections, but as a control in this experiment I can offer my hubby, who works in a mercifully unrelated field and has about as much interest in my working world as I do in his. On the agreement that he would watch In Treatment with me on the strict condition that I would not utter a single word along the lines of "I'd never do that", or "I can see what he did there", he was as gripped as I was. And I mean him no disrespect in revealing that he even shed a tear during one of the later episodes. Good casting, tight, believable dialogue, and some top quality acting all helped the series along - Mia Wasikowska was particularly striking as the tough-talking, heartbroken teenage gymnast - and Gabriel himself was relatively restraining in laying on the twinkly Irish charm. Jags Heffernan was almost banished from my mind.

If you've ever been a messed-up teen, unhappy singleton or part of a warring couple, you'll find something to hold your interest in In Treatment. And if you're a shrink like me, you'll find yourself in the biggest Hall of Mirrors since the County Fair last came to town.

It's winter. We all need box sets. You could do worse than this one.


©Ishouldbeworking 2011