Imagine rewatching a show that once defined your career, only to feel your heart sink with every cringe-worthy moment. That’s exactly what happened to Mackenzie Crook when he revisited The Office. But this isn’t just about nostalgia—it’s about evolution. In BBC Two’s new series Small Prophets, Crook steps into the role of Gordon, a character that feels eerily familiar yet refreshingly new. But here’s where it gets controversial: is Gordon just a grown-up, more disillusioned version of Gareth from The Office, or is he something entirely different? Crook himself admits, ‘I wrote Gordon as a monster, but by the end, I was actually quite fond of him.’
In person, Crook exudes a restless, humble energy—what once looked like nerves now reads as boundless curiosity. And yes, he’s covered in tattoos, though by now, maybe we should stop being surprised by that. But let’s dive into Small Prophets, where the real magic happens. This isn’t Gordon’s story, though. It’s Michael’s, played by Pearce Quigley, whose performance is so subtly heartbreaking that you’ll find yourself wondering why you’re suddenly melancholic. Michael, a fiftyish hoarder with a twitch, works at a DIY store and visits his dad, Brian (brilliantly portrayed by Michael Palin), every afternoon. And this is the part most people miss: Michael’s quiet tragedy—his girlfriend Clea disappeared without a trace seven years ago—is never overstated, yet it lingers in every scene.
At first glance, Small Prophets seems like a thoughtful exploration of middle age. ‘Of course it is,’ Crook confirms. ‘I’m a little bit obsessed by being middle-aged. It crept up on me.’ He pauses, then delivers a classic Crook tangent: ‘‘Grownup children’ is a horrible expression.’ It’s funny because it’s true, but amplified to the point of absurdity. Time passing isn’t all bad, he argues—it’s better than the alternative. But the real joke? Melancholy itself. It’s both the punchline and the raw truth.
Michael’s midlife rut takes a surreal turn when his dad reveals he knows how to grow homunculi—tiny, fully formed humans who must answer any question truthfully. Michael, skeptical but kind, follows the recipe, hoping they might reveal what happened to Clea. When he taps the clouded bell jars to unveil these creatures, the effect is nothing short of fabulous. But here’s the question: Is it the unexpectedness, the suburban setting, or the sheer audacity of magic realism that makes it work? Crook admits, ‘I’ve always been fascinated by stories of ordinary people who experience something extraordinary.’
Life goes on as if nothing supernatural has happened. Work remains mundane, and the neighbor still complains about Michael’s garden. Speaking of the neighbor, Crook wrote him as a villain, but actor Jon Pointing brought a depth that made him sympathetic. ‘He just wants peace and quiet,’ Crook explains. ‘How can this bearded hoarder be more content than he is?’ It’s a question that lingers long after the credits roll.
Small Prophets is a blend of influences—David Lynch, Michel Gondry, Charlie Kaufman, Spike Jonze—but also a nod to 70s and 80s sitcoms like The Good Life and Ever Decreasing Circles. ‘Their lack of cynicism, their lack of cruelty,’ Crook notes. Yet, it’s uniquely his. After The Office, he wanted to write something kinder, less cringe-worthy. ‘I stumbled upon my genre—gentle comedy,’ he says, though he’s not a fan of the term. ‘I don’t want to tell people what to feel. I like downplaying stuff.’
The Office did the opposite—every awkward moment was amplified to excruciating levels. Rewatching it, Crook had what he describes as a ‘PTSD flashback.’ ‘My heart just sank,’ he recalls, reliving a scene where Gareth and David struggle to help a disabled employee down the stairs. It’s comedy, but it’s also painful—painfully human.
Fame in the 2000s was a hard landing for Crook. ‘I became the weird-looking bloke,’ he says. ‘But I don’t think I look weird. Maybe I am, but if I was, wouldn’t kids at school have said something?’ They did—they called him ‘Small Paul.’ Today, he’s happier behind the camera, writing, editing, and directing. ‘Acting? I’m not that fussed about it anymore,’ he admits. ‘I can always see myself acting my socks off.’
Detectorists, his passion project, started as a bleaker idea—two men in parkas, metal detecting in a ploughed field. But filming the pilot on the hottest day of summer changed everything. ‘The weather and the countryside became a big part of the show,’ he explains. It’s a series about quiet heroism, about finding miniature triumphs in the face of constant disappointment. And it’s gained a cult following because, as Crook puts it, ‘The BBC let me do what I wanted.’
Small Prophets is riskier, with its surreal elements and higher stakes. When Crook pitched it, he warned that not everything would be resolved. ‘Maybe you’d never find out what happened to Clea,’ he said. The homunculi, brought to life through stop-motion animation (not CGI), add a nostalgic magic. ‘It was a deliberate attempt to put some magic into it,’ he explains. But here’s the controversial part: Crook doesn’t believe in the supernatural. ‘I wanted to believe as a kid,’ he admits. ‘There’s something romantic about sad escapism. Maybe that’s my genre.’
Small Prophets premieres on BBC Two and iPlayer on February 9. It’s fantastical, strange, and deeply human. But the real question is: Can a show about unfinished stories and magical creatures truly resonate in a world that demands answers? What do you think? Is Small Prophets a masterpiece of gentle comedy, or does its ambiguity miss the mark? Let’s discuss in the comments.
