“There is a sense I very much get about this place. Italians know what life is for and they know it won’t last very long. And so they take advantage. I like that. Particularly at my age.” The last of several times I interviewed the British crime writer Michael Dibdin (1947-2007) was four years before his death. It was a freezing February morning in Bologna, where he was researching the 10th and (it turned out) penultimate book in the Aurelio Zen series. The interview was at 9am. In the fug of a crowded bar, Dibdin soaked up several espressi and a warming tot of grappa.

If there’s one thing the British love on television at Christmas time, it’s a period drama, and even better, a period mystery. So what joy when there’s a bit of sleuthing by Agatha Christie's yin to Hercule Poirot’s yang, the eagle-eyed wise old bird Miss Marple, in The Secret of Chimneys.

Miss Marple (Julia McKenzie) is asked by Lady Virginia Revel (Charlotte Salt), the daughter of a dead cousin (what a lot of those the old girl appears to have), to be part of a lavish weekend party at the family’s country pile, Chimneys. The house was once known for its society gatherings until a rare diamond was stolen at a party in 1932, a theft that led to the end of Virginia’s diplomat father’s (Edward Fox) career.

The action starts 23 years on, when the world has changed and Chimneys is now too expensive for the family to maintain, but the ambitious and very dull politician George Lomax (Adam Godley) has offered to save it if Virginia, by some years his junior, accepts his proposal of marriage. Trouble is, she has just met and fallen in love with the dashing young Anthony Cade (Jonas Armstrong).

This being Agatha Christie (or at least a very loose adaptation, as she never appeared in the original story), those aren’t enough strands for us to unravel when someone is found deaded, in this case a mysterious Austrian Count (Anthony Higgins) who has specifically asked for a major international trade deal brokered by Lomax to be signed at Chimneys. There’s the chippy Miss Blenkinsopp (Ruth Jones), for one, from the newly created National Heritage who is very keen to get her hands on the property and is found snooping in the library; civil servant Bill Eversleigh (Mathew Horne), another would-be lover of Virginia; Virginia’s unmarried older sister, Bundle (Dervla Kirwan); and the family servant, Tredwell (Michelle Collins), who, Miss Marple soon realises, Has A Secret.

Chief Inspector Battle (Stephen Dillane) arrives from Scotland Yard to investigate and enlists Miss Marple’s help, but then two more deaths occur and lots of red herrings are released into this particular pond. The complicated plot includes a cache of love letters, coded messages, the cover-up of a death long ago and not one but two people with gambling debts.

As we eventually find the dastardly murderer, it all adds up to some nice light entertainment, of course, but by golly I wish everyone involved in The Secret of Chimneys could have given it even the faintest whiff of urgency. The feature-length episode was wonderful to look at, but I’m afraid both Poirot and Marple mysteries on ITV now appear to have taken over from The Bill as the common entry on all British actors' CVs; nice little earners where they galumph about pretty locations and spout trite dialogue as they wait either to be bumped orf or reveal the reason they committed the murder.

Few actors in The Secret of Chimneys appeared to have invested even a minimal effort in their characterisations. Edward Fox, we all know, has been playing variations on his most famous role, the Duke of Windsor, for some time now (the BBC missed a trick in not asking him to appear in the updated Upstairs Downstairs, set in the mid 1930s), Charlotte Salt’s accent was nowhere near posh enough (in contrast to Dervla Kirwan’s spot-on "frightfully"), Michelle Collins was miscast and, fine actress though she is, I think Julia McKenzie is too young and sprightly for Miss Marple.

Perhaps I spent too much of my youth reading Agatha Christie, but I remember her books being page turners; here the story dragged and by the end I didn’t care who had bumped off the Count. Full marks to the location, wardrobe and make-up people, however, as not a cuff or coiffure was out of place.

Joy Division brought Anton Corbijn to England in 1979 and, nearly 30 years later, made him a cinema director. The sleeve of the band’s album Unknown Pleasures fascinated him so deeply he felt compelled to leave Holland for the country where such mysteries were made. The photographs he took of them for the NME helped make an icon of their singer Ian Curtis even before his 1980 suicide, and were themselves icons of a school of serious, black-and-white rock photography.

It is not uncommon for opportunistic film-makers to put together a flashy promo in the hope it will attract enough investors to turn it into a full-length feature. When Robert Rodriguez made the Machete trailer for 2007 double-bill Grindhouse, though – an all-action spoof featuring striking bit-part actor Danny Trejo as its titular knife-wielding protagonist – he had no intention of taking this parodic in-joke any further.

Watch the original Machete trailer:

It’s just the luck of the draw. I’ve been sent to prison twice now in the past four days. Last Friday it was Clean Break’s day-long six-play epic in Soho. Last night it was an 80-minute all-male affair at the Roundhouse. Needless to say the encounters were planets apart. Men, after all, come from Mars, already primed for battle, women from Venus. Philip Osment’s Inside, however, once again provides living proof of the absurdity of such simplistic, reductive analysis. People are people. Each individual has their own story to tell and is shaped by conditions and environment and what they have or have not been subjected to in childhood. And, in this case in particular, the role fathering has or hasn’t played in the development of that individual.

David Suchet has been perfecting his impersonation of Hercule Poirot for more than 20 years, perhaps sympathising with Tina Turner’s maxim, “The longer I do it, the better it gets.” The way Suchet keeps finding new little tics and eccentricities to keep the character fresh is a substantial feat, since around him, the fixtures and fittings of Agatha Christie-land have proved impregnable to change.

The American networks have so far been able to resist the stick-insectish charms of David Tennant, but the BBC would probably start up a new channel just for him if he asked them. In this new four-parter, his comeback appearance after handing over the keys of the TARDIS to Matt Smith, Tennant plays Dave Tyler, a successful Glasgow photographer married to teaching assistant Rita (Laura Fraser).

If you can’t play a cop or a mass murderer, steer clear of the acting profession. That would be the logical inference from the swarms of cops’n’killers series cramming the TV schedules. You’d think we’d have had enough, what with Luther, all the CSI franchises, and simultaneous home-grown and American versions of Law & Order squabbling for attention, but they just keep on coming.

Howard Marks was a pothead Errol Flynn, living a life of remarkable escapades and hair's-breadth escapes. A Welsh working-class Oxford graduate in nuclear physics and philosophy, he’d be fascinating company even if he wasn’t once the world’s most successful dope smuggler, and an associate of the IRA, the CIA, the Mob and MI6. His autobiography, Mr Nice, has let Marks earn a living reminiscing about it ever since. But Bernard Rose’s adaptation casts inadvertent doubt on such cult heroism. Marks’s life here seems somehow inconsequential.

”The domestic” over at 27, The Hill turns out to be decidedly undomestic. The murderer's basement lair so resembles the blood-splattered dens of every other serial killer that has ever graced the big and small screen (right down to the sickly green light) that it’s hard not to contemplate the notion that there’s some kind of grim finishing school that all blossoming sadistic bastards are obliged to attend before getting their licence to kill.