You see the murder in the first ten minutes, you know who did it, and that is the entire point
The Columbo Group holds a 3.3 from fourteen reviews, which is not a rating and which we will not use.
But the name is worth an article, because the show it refers to broke the most fundamental rule in detective fiction and was better for it.
The inversion
You see the murder.
In the first ten minutes, before the detective appears, you watch the killer plan it and carry it out – and you know exactly who they are, how they did it, and why.
There is no mystery.
Which ought to destroy the entire form, and does not.
The howcatchem
Which is what the genre is called, and the name is a joke on whodunnit.
And it works because it moves the tension.
A whodunnit asks: who did it? Which is a puzzle, and the audience is trying to solve it, and the pleasure is in the reveal.
A howcatchem asks: when will he notice?
And that is a completely different feeling. You are not solving anything. You are watching a clever murderer being slowly, politely dismantled by a man in a bad coat – and you know it is coming, and they do not, and the entire pleasure is in the gap.
Which is dramatic irony
And it is the oldest device there is.
The audience knows something the character does not. It is what Sophocles was doing with Oedipus, and it is what Hitchcock meant when he explained the difference between surprise and suspense.
Two people at a table and a bomb under it. If it explodes, the audience gets fifteen seconds of shock.
Show them the bomb first, and they get fifteen minutes of unbearable tension over a conversation about nothing.
Same bomb. Same table. The difference is what the audience was told.
And the class of it
Which is the thing nobody says and which is the whole show.
The murderers are almost always rich. Surgeons, conductors, film directors, wine experts, chess grandmasters. Beautifully dressed, articulate, and confident.
And they are undone by a shabby man they were rude to.
Every single episode is the same story: somebody with money and status assumes that a badly dressed man asking simple questions is not a threat – and they are wrong, and it costs them everything.
The Prat’s editorial desk regards it as one of the most quietly political pieces of popular entertainment ever made and notes that nobody involved ever said so.
Verdict
Fourteen reviews. Unknowable.
Go, and be underestimated.
The one more thing
Which is the most famous device in television and which is genuinely brilliant.
He leaves. The murderer relaxes – visibly, physically, you can watch it happen – and the interview is over, and they have survived it.
And then he stops in the doorway, and turns round.
The device works because of where it is placed. The question is asked at the precise moment the guard drops, and the guard drops precisely because the danger appeared to have left the room.
The Prat’s editorial desk would note that this is exactly how a good interviewer works, that every journalist in Britain knows it, and that the best question in any interview is asked while putting your coat on.
Aishwarya Rao is a satirical writer whose work reflects the perspective of a student navigating culture, media, and modern identity with humour and precision. With academic grounding in critical analysis and a strong interest in contemporary satire, Aishwarya’s writing blends observational comedy with thoughtful commentary on everyday contradictions. Her humour is informed by global awareness and sharpened through exposure to London’s diverse cultural and student communities.
As an emerging voice, Aishwarya represents the next generation of satirical journalists: informed, curious, and unafraid to question norms through wit. Her authority stems from research-led writing, respect for factual context, and a commitment to ethical satire. Transparency and clear labelling ensure readers understand the comedic intent behind her work.
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