‘Bodkin’ Review: Crime in a Small Town? Send in the Podcasters

There are worse shows to imitate than “Only Murders in the Building,” and perhaps “Bodkin,” premiering Thursday on Netflix, would be better if it had tried. It too is about the creation of a true-crime podcast, set in an enclave where quirky conflicts simmer for decades. It too pokes fun at the inanity of some podcasts, and it tries to weave a comedic pep into its pathos.

But “Bodkin,” created by Jez Scharf and executive produced by Barack and Michelle Obama, among others, takes more inspiration from mopey foreign murder shows. It has that common pervasive dampness along with plenty of clannish townspeople who resent these nosy Nellies poking around where they have no business. None! [Cue the jangling of the bells hung above the doorway in a quaint shop.]

Yes, there is a spooky local festival, and yes, the town’s top pastime is keeping dark secrets. No one asks direct questions, nor can anyone speak for long without drifting into a dreamy parable. The show is set in the present day, but the surroundings feel ancient.

Our town here is Bodkin, a (fictional) Irish village where years ago, during the annual celebration of Samhain (a Gaelic proto-Halloween), three people disappeared. Now our podcasters are on the case: Gilbert (Will Forte), a mostly cheery American with some successful podcasts under his belt; Dove (Siobhan Cullen), a Dublin-raised, London-based reporter who perceives this assignment as a banishment; and Emmy (Robyn Cara), the eager research assistant who tolerates their shabby treatment. Gilbert is vaguely dopey but ingratiating. Dove is so sour she could pickle a sociopath. To the show’s credit, at least they do not hook up with each other.

Dove says that true-crime stories aren’t real journalism, and while we’re led to believe she is an ace reporter, she seems unfamiliar with one of the core aspects of news gathering: earning the trust of potential sources. She is surly and rude to nearly everyone she meets. She breaks into a library after hours just because she’s impatient. Back in London, she had promised to protect a whistle-blower’s identity, but his name leaked somehow, and he later killed himself. This arc never fully meshes with the rest of the show, and it plays out mostly in terse phone calls. But everything with Dove is so one-note, it’s hard to see the specifics of her disrespect. Similarly, Gilbert’s money trouble and failing marriage — more phone calls — feel like tacked-on inventions rather than enriching character depth.

Will there ever be a show in which a female journalist doesn’t sleep with a source or subject? The search continues. Emmy falls for the local tech wunderkind and Dove for the sharp funeral director. Gilbert too becomes awfully enmeshed, befriending Seamus (David Wilmot), a local fisherman with a, yes, fishy past. Forte and Wilmot have the most interesting chemistry in the show: Gilbert is eager for good sound bites and Seamus loves to pontificate, but their deeper purposes are at odds. Neither can fully mask his prickly distrust, but both are desperate for the connection anyway. It’s a dangerous, fruitful combo.