The core issue that often goes unnoticed is how easily we can become nostalgic or overly sentimental about the past, especially when revisiting the characters and stories that once felt so fresh and impactful. But here’s where it gets interesting—what if the feelings we associate with our favorite shows or characters reveal more about us than we realize? This compelling exploration is embodied in Mackenzie Crook’s reflections on his work and the shows that shaped his career.
Recently, watching The Office deeply affected Crook, to the point where he admits a sinking feeling in his heart. It’s a reminder that sometimes, our most cherished memories can also stir up feelings of discomfort or melancholy. Crook’s latest project, Small Prophets, unfolding over six episodes on BBC Two, features him playing Gordon, a character managing a large DIY store. The role echoes his breakthrough performance as Gareth in The Office, a part that first introduced many to his talent nearly 25 years ago. Crook describes Gordon as a 'pedantic and jobsworthy' figure—an evolved, more disappointed version of Gareth, sans the West Country accent. Interestingly, Crook initially crafted Gordon as a villainous character but grew to feel genuine affection for him by the story’s end.
In person, Crook’s demeanor is modest and slightly energetic with a jittery quality that, over time, reveals a pure curiosity rather than nervousness. Despite having tattoos, he doesn't seem surprised anymore when others have them—perhaps a sign of how attitudes towards body art have shifted.
Small Prophets isn't centered around Gordon himself; instead, it explores the lives of ordinary folk, particularly Michael, played masterfully by Pearce Quigley. Michael is a middle-aged man with a gentle sadness—wearing a beard, a twitcher, and a hoarder who works at the DIY store and visits his father, Brian (delightfully portrayed by Michael Palin), every day. Michael carries a heavy secret: his girlfriend Clea vanished without a trace seven years earlier, yet he bears this tragedy silently—not seeking pity, just quietly living with it.
At first glance, the series appears to be a heartfelt reflection on middle age and the quiet, often unnoticed, struggles that come with it. Crook admits to an obsession with the aging process, humorously lamenting how quickly decades seem to pass—'everything seems to have been 20 years ago,' he says—and the mixed feelings about having grown-up children. He humorously confesses that having adult children (his daughter Scout is 19, and his son Jude, 22, a stand-up comedian) isn’t as sad as it sounds. In fact, Crook insists that time passing is better than everything remaining static—an optimistic outlook tinged with a hint of melancholy that gives the series its emotional depth.
Things take a fantastical turn when Michael’s father, Brian, introduces him to the concept of homunculi—tiny, fully formed humans who must tell the truth. Driven by a desire to uncover what really happened to Clea, Michael follows his father’s recipe to create these miniature beings. The highlight is the magical realism that unfolds when these small creatures—revealed in softly animated, stop-motion jars—bring unexpected wonder to everyday life. The series uses this supernatural element as a way to delve into the human condition: stories of loneliness, ordinary folks experiencing extraordinary events that upend their lives.
Life trudges on normally around Michael, his mundane routines unbroken, with a neighbor constantly complaining about his overgrown garden. Crook points out that this neighbor was originally conceived as a villain—‘but Jon Pointing’s portrayal brought a surprising empathy,’ he explains. The neighbor’s desire for peace and order contrasts sharply with Michael’s chaotic contentment—characters written as archetypes but given surprising depths.
Drawing inspiration from giants like David Lynch, Michel Gondry, Charlie Kaufman, and Spike Jonze—masters of surreal and experimental storytelling—Crook has crafted something uniquely his: a gentle comedy. He explicitly wanted to move away from the cruelty and cringe humor of The Office, aiming instead for something more understated and compassionate. He describes his preferred genre as 'gentle comedy,' though admits it might be a somewhat misleading label—implying a lack of humor or edge. Crook prefers stories that don’t tell the audience when to laugh or cry but allow space for genuine reactions.
Reflecting on The Office, Crook recounts a particularly gut-wrenching memory: a scene where a fire alarm erupts, and the characters attempt a painfully awkward rescue of a disabled colleague. Watching it now, Crook describes a visceral reaction—his heart sinking as if reliving the anxiety all over again. The show’s brutal honesty, combined with its humor, made it a trailblazer—popularizing mockumentary style and illustrating life's awkward and painful moments.
Fame arrived swiftly for Crook in the 2000s, often accompanied by a label—'the weird-looking bloke'—a perception he struggled with. He reflects, somewhat amused, that his childhood nickname at school was 'Small Paul,' a nickname rooted in his stature and original name, Paul Crook. Now, he finds more fulfillment behind the camera, preferring to write, produce, and direct rather than act. He admits to a certain dissatisfaction with his acting skills, often feeling disconnected from his on-screen portrayals such as Gareth. Crook marvels at Martin Freeman’s naturalism in The Office, contrasting it with his own more exaggerated performance.
When Crook created Detectorists in 2014, it was initially a bleaker, more wintery story—two men in parkas searching for Saxon artifacts in a cold field. But filming on a hot summer day transformed his vision; he realized that the lush, vibrant countryside became integral to the show's charm. The quiet, modest triumphs of Andy and Lance—metal detector enthusiasts who rarely find treasures—embody a subtle heroism, a daily victory over disappointment. This understated tone helped build a dedicated fanbase, thanks to the BBC’s hands-off approach, which allowed Crook’s distinct voice to shine.
Small Prophets incorporates surreal elements like stop-motion homunculi to evoke nostalgia, a deliberate choice to add a touch of magic and wonder. Crook clarifies that he doesn't believe in the supernatural but was fascinated as a child by stories of inexplicable phenomena—ghosts, spontaneous fires—and longed for mysteries beyond explanation. Despite coming from a loving family, he’s been drawn to themes of loneliness and escapism, finding a unique beauty in the romantic notion of fragile, mysterious worlds.
Small Prophets begins airing on BBC Two and will be available on iPlayer starting February 9. Its blend of gentle humor, surreal storytelling, and heartfelt characters makes it a series worth exploring for anyone interested in modern, compassionate drama that challenges the stereotypes of comedy—so, what do you think? Is Crook’s 'gentle comedy' the new frontier in television storytelling, or is it just a polite way to sidestep the edginess that keeps audiences engaged? Share your thoughts in the comments—do you prefer raw, uncomfortable humor, or are you ready for more subtle, thoughtful narratives? Let the debate begin.
