Can I, very belatedly, reflect on the medicinal powers of John Sargeant's dancing face? It is a thing of utter serenity in an urgent, angry world. Never mind that he should be channelling the steamy street rhythms of Rio de Janeiro. Consider instead how his expression looks like he's completing a particularly absorbing paint-by-numbers in a sun-dappled conservatory, or perhaps fishing on a perfectly still pond at dusk, to a soundtrack of birdsong.
It is a tonic, a sedative, a shot in the arm. Bring on the peaceful paso doble.