BUMBLING, ineffectual, over-intellectual, unable to form relationships — this describes the central character in the new comedy drama Ludwig (BBC1, Wednesdays from last week): obviously a vehicle for David Mitchell. His familiar persona here animates a reclusive crossword- and general games-setter dragged from the isolation that he craves by his sister-in-law (Anna Maxwell Martin — wonderful) in her desperate attempt to discover her missing husband, his identical twin.
The brother is a senior policeman. What could be simpler for his twin than to impersonate the absent detective, infiltrate his office, and seek clues to clear up the mystery? The subterfuge is so effective that he is immediately required to solve a fresh murder — which, despite himself, he does by brilliantly applying abstract logic.
It is a slow burn, more and more enjoyable as it progresses. Instead of dragging you along on a tide of gathering excitements, the programme, unfashionably, discloses more and more satisfying depth recollected in tranquillity. Surely its central premise is a sly dig at the entire genre: that all TV murder mysteries are essentially formulaic games, set to be solved, and nothing remotely like the soul-destroying horror of real-life murder.
It ends with a moving twist: might his brother’s disappearance be replaying their father’s abandonment of them as children, a trauma that set Ludwig on his eccentric solitary path?
A father only too obviously present haunts the three-part series Mozart: Rise of a genius (BBC2, Mondays from 16 September). Leopold recognised his infant son’s miraculous genius, and directed his concert tours around Europe. The child’s astonishing ability taking the continent by storm. But the father, no less jealous than proud, could never release the son from his influence, seeking to control every aspect of his life. Wolfgang sought revolutionary independence, and yet desperately sought parental approval.
It is a very mixed presentation of the familiar story. No expense is spared on costumes and settings — and yet it’s the same fortepiano wherever it is supposed to be played; at key moments, they simply show old film clips; the lip-synching is pretty amateurish; and the talking heads range from professional experts to celebrities with supposedly popular appeal, and yet without any real insight to offer except enthusiasm and uninformed 21st-century psychology.
The drama series Apples Never Fall (BBC1, Saturdays from 12 September) features a controlling, rage-filled father, hiding his fragrant wife’s disappearance as long as possible. As their four noxious children search, the familial faultlines deepen into tectonic chasms; was mysterious Savannah an innocent godsend or scheming criminal? It succeeds in one worthy moral effect: extinguishing any ambition to enjoy a wealthy US lifestyle.