The Suburbia Affair

I love this episode. So many of us love this episode because – hell – Napoleon and Illya move into a house together in the suburbs and embark on domestic life. It is utterly perfect. It’s a silly episode in lots of ways, and the plot is very definitely a Season 3 plot. It’s an episode of two halves; a delightful Napoleon-and-Illya-living-together half, and a silly-chases-and-fights half. But we don’t care, because Napoleon and Illya have moved in together. At least, I don’t care that much.

Look at this place. This place is Hell. This is the kind of place that anyone with a soul and an ounce of creativity would shudder to set eyes on. At least, it’s my kind of hell.

It’s Illya’s kind of hell too. This man is So Over Suburbia. He’s only just got out of the car, and he is already So Over Suburbia.

 

Illya has looked less suspicious over Thrush plots. I’d hazard he looked less suspicious of Angelique than he looks of this place. He’s like a cat in a bath house.

 

‘Just the thing for two bachelors looking for – ’ the estate agent says. ‘Er, serenity,’ Napoleon completes dubiously for him. The only thing Napoleon is looking for here is a Danish scientist and a crisp double bed with a headboard that won’t bang against the wall. I’m sure Illya’s looking forward to the bed too, but he is So Over Suburbia. He’s stimming like crazy, rubbing his fingertips together while trying not to.

 

When the Purple Valley Dairy man comes round Illya suddenly gets very Russian.

‘We don’t drink milk,’ he says, in a tone which is actually saying, ‘Come near me with that milk bottle and I’ll garrotte you with a lamp cord.’

But milk is the American beverage! Napoleon ribs Illya mercilessly by urging his communist Soviet partner not to be unpatriotic.

(By the way, be a good agent here. Take note of the milkman’s face. First off, perhaps you’ll notice it’s the face that belongs to the trumpet playing Thrush baddie who brought Illya down in The Minus X Affair in Season Two. That Thrush baddie with whom Illya exchanged a long look indicating his appreciation of the baddie’s skill in shooting him with a tranquilliser dart through his trumpet. And that’s not something you can say very often.)

 

Illya is very extremely completely over Suburbia. And no, he doesn’t want the fecking cottage cheese.

 

Illya’s really quite peeved about the whole thing, and you realise part of the reason why when you find out that he doesn’t even know the mission yet. So, our boys appear to be in California. A long way from New York. They’ve driven here from the airport no doubt. Napoleon knows exactly why they’re here, but he hasn’t told Illya. No wonder Illya’s peeved. Napoleon has been playing with him for the whole journey. ‘I’ll tell you when we get there, Illya. No, really. You’ll love it. We’re not even in a hotel this time!’

Anyway, Illya goes to put the milk in the fridge while Napoleon calls Waverly so Illya can be let in on the mission details.

 

God, these guys are casual. No, actually it’s just the split second before their reaction to the fact that the milk has exploded in the fridge.

 

Hearing this through the communicator, Waverly is mildly perturbed.

  

‘I’m glad we didn’t take the cottage cheese.’

Okay. So this image. Just look at this image. Try telling me, with a straight face, that a show made in the 1960s, when I’m sure that the creative writing team behind a show with a continuous theme of bondage and sexual promiscuity were quite aware of the rainbow of sexuality, did this in all innocence. They have moved Napoleon and Illya into a house together. Napoleon and Illya, who spend all their time sitting as close as possible to each other, Napoleon, who will flirt with anything with a pulse, Illya who recoils at female contact, Napoleon who is caught consistently through the series ogling Illya’s behind. And now Napoleon and Illya are lying on the floor together after a milk explosion covered in streaks of curiously viscous white fluid. Tell me that this scene was completely innocent, and watch me laugh.

 

Oh my god, I love this episode. Illya, in his holster, vacuuming. Napoleon crouching on the floor picking up glass – with his fingers? Napoleon, you’ve got a dustpan. Surely there’s a brush to go with that?

When the doorbell rings the boys are prepared for trouble. It’s all right, though. It’s Mr Waverly. It’s not the guy with the milk. You remember, Illya – the one who shot you with a dart back in Acapulco, I think it was. That guy. Remember that guy’s face, Illya.

I’m assuming Waverly was, by some coincidence, already in the area. He hasn’t got on an U.N.C.L.E. jet and flown across the continent just to have a chat with his agents that he could have through the communicator. But – not long ago he was sitting in his office. Or was he in the San Francisco headquarters, maybe?

 

Mr Waverly is so helpful.

 

Illya has been kept in ignorance all this time so we can go through a slightly clunky explanation of the set up for the plot. Poor Illya. Sometimes he must feel like nothing more than a pawn.

 

But a pretty pawn. A very pretty pawn…

 

Napoleon is pretty too.

Anyway, we learn that Dr Rutter is a Danish scientist who disappeared about ten years ago just when he’d completed a revolutionary theory in the field of antimatter. Hmm. That’s the kind of thing Illya usually knows about. Thrush are after him, so U.N.C.L.E. is too.

 

I’m sorry, but Illya is incredibly sexy doing housework in suit trousers and white shirt and holster. Extremely sexy.

We learn that Rutter suffers from a disease called ‘the Humboldt’s Syndrome,’ which needs a drug called Diamine to control it, which just set me to thinking about Humboldt’s penguins and the Arctic island of Diamede. Brains are funny things. And Illya is still pretty, and Waverly is apologetic that he can’t provide them with a maid.

Take note of this arrangement. Napoleon Does The Cleaning. Got that? Okay.

If only they’d had the courage to let Napoleon say, ‘Dear.’

Ah. Illya’s soufflé. You know, that would be a good blog title. Illya’s soufflé is a wonderful thing. Or would be, if Napoleon could step up to the hunter-gatherer plate and bring back eggs for his woman. Illya is stimming like crazy again, by the way, rocking his feet on the floor and scratching at his hands. He’s very uncomfortable.

I wouldn’t take my life into my hands by upsetting Illya when he’s in this mood.

Oh, boys… The subtitles don’t mention that Napoleon’s sigh is that delightful kind of growling sigh that he does, and that he also rolls his eyes.

This is spying at its finest. Napoleon has sauntered down to the chemist’s, Mr Fletcher, to find out if anyone’s buying diamine. (Confidentiality, anyone?) While the chemist is not noticing Napoleon bugging the phone Napoleon is not noticing the chemist raising up some kind of little pistol and pointing it towards him.

(Also, since I noticed that this guy is the same guy as the husband in The Shark Affair I am continually distracted by the thought that since that taste of life on the other side he defected to Thrush.)

Napoleon, honey, he’s got a gun aimed right at you.

As soon as Napoleon has left the chemist is on the phone to Miss Witherspoon, one of Thrush’s surprisingly common S&M themed career women, who’s in the middle of disciplining the milkman. He knows Napoleon is an U.N.C.L.E. agent. Of course he does. They always do. After all, they carry photos of Napoleon and Illya in their wallets.

Meanwhile, back in the love nest, Illya is in the kitchen, reading up about soufflés, still agitated, tapping his fingers restlessly, and peeved at Napoleon because he’s forgotten the eggs. Oh dear. Marital harmony isn’t an easy thing to keep up.

‘How do you expect me to make a soufflé without eggs?’

Napoleon will borrow some. Illya really sounds quite peeved when he tells Napoleon the neighbour on the right is his type.

This is the face of a man who knows he’s upset his lover but isn’t quite sure how or why.

I wouldn’t exactly say that Betsy is Napoleon’s type, but Illya’s just being aggrieved about the eggs. Of course Napoleon manages to charm her into letting him have some eggs. (When you’re a gay couple it’s useful to have a woman who can lend you some eggs.) But then he persuades her to come and actually make the soufflé.

While Napoleon is inside getting the eggs Betsy’s lodger turns up, a suspiciously Danish-accented music teacher and mathematician by the name of Willoughby.

How is it that Napoleon can deliver this line to an ageing music teacher as if he’s saying it to a nubile twenty-year-old that he wants to bed?

Oh, Napoleon. You’ve upset Illya by keeping him out of the loop, taking him to suburbia, and forgetting his eggs. Now you’ve implied he can’t cook a simple soufflé and brought a strange woman into the house, and you’re eyeing her behind as she gets things from the cupboard. Illya is Not Happy.

Napoleon puts the lights on to help Betsy see, and she goes kind of crazy. Oops.

It is Not Illya’s Day.

This is Illya’s ‘the woman’s gone crazy and I have literally no idea what to do’ look.

Napoleon wrestles her outside and she calms down as Willoughby turns up to find out what the screaming was about. Illya is utterly bewildered. This is why he doesn’t do women.

The way Napoleon looks at Illya… Even when he’s suspicious as hell he still manages this intense, all-trusting gaze.

Illya is stimming again, rubbing the spatula on his chin. Must feel nice. He’s not best pleased when Napoleon offers to take Betsy to dinner, though. She can’t come. There’s a neighbourhood meeting tonight.

I love the way Illya casually stashes the spatula in his inside pocket.

Marital bliss. I actually ended up writing a fanfic about this. An explicit fanfic, of course.

Napoleon, at least, has noticed there’s something odd going on. Illya is too busy looking like he’s chewed a wasp, but he catches on in the end.

The meeting goes almost as well as the soufflé making. Napoleon is being sarcastic. Illya is being incredibly pissed off.

He even does his little face wiggle, the one he does to indicate disgust. He does this a few other times. The Thor Affair, at the bar, is the one I remember. Anyway, everyone is pissed off and arguing about why they’re pissed off and arguing, but Mr Willoughby suddenly starts to feel ill and has to leave. Napoleon, Illya, the clues are there. It’s the lights that are producing these symptoms of irritability. The same effect is dangerous for people with Humboldt’s syndrome.

The next morning, and Illya is busy mopping the floor. Now, remember what the arrangement was? Napoleon does the cleaning, yes?

Oh, a bread delivery! It’s raisin rye. Illya is properly suspicious, since he’s never heard of raisin rye. It’s all right, Illya. Neither have I.

Illya is Thinking.

A beautiful scene. Napoleon asks if Illya is making bread pudding. Illya thinks the bread is a bomb. It’s not. It’s bread. It’s Napoleon’s bread. Illya’s hand is wet and he can’t bring himself to dry it off on his trousers, so he’s left just shaking it wanly. He looks rather upset about dunking Napoleon’s bread, and he dutifully goes to the phone with his wet hand to order some more.

Meanwhile, Napoleon pops round to see Mr Willoughby. Mr Willoughby still isn’t well. I don’t think Illya has really done any agent’s work in this episode yet. Napoleon is hogging it all, while Illya cooks and cleans and feels that curious feeling that he’s doing all he can but is still somehow letting his husband down.

Napoleon asks all kind of cunning spy questions, but it’s not as interesting as Napoleon and Illya’s domestic interplay.

Ah. It’s the new delivery of raisin rye! Now, you may or may not know that I’m convinced Illya is autistic. For one thing, he’s always stimming. And also autistic people aren’t always great at recognising faces. Hell, I don’t recognise my neighbours out of context. So here Illya is accepting a loaf of bread from Exactly The Same Person who delivered the exploding milk. But he’s wearing different clothes and is in a different role, so he might as well be a completely different person to those of us who suffer from a degree of proposagnosia. So Illya accepts the loaf like a trusting little lamb, and he looks so pleased that he’s going to make Napoleon happy. (To be fair, the bakery guy waves at Napoleon and he doesn’t recognise him either. But he isn’t standing right in front of him at the house door.)

Ah.

‘What happened?’ Napoleon asks.

‘Raisin rye,’ Illya says.

‘Sorry,’ Napoleon tells him.

God knows what’s happening to the insurance premium on this house.

 (Meanwhile, Willoughby gets Betsy on his side by telling her that he’s guilt of trigamy, which is a capital crime in Prague, and that Napoleon is a Czechoslovakian on his trail. Cunning, but not pretty for screencapping. Anyway, he sends Betsy to the chemist’s to get his medicine.)

Illya is stimming again, fiddling with his hands as they listen to Betsy ordering diamine at the chemist’s. She tells the chemist it’s for the estate agent, Barkley. Somehow neither agent are convinced enough by the Danish mathematician living above Betsy’s garage and decide the scientist might be the decidedly American Barkley after all. Okay, boys. But even the chemist is convinced by Betsy’s tale.

So, Barkley is desperately trying to sell a house to a couple in a nasty little caravan…

Finally Illya is getting to do some spy work! It’s desperately misguided spy work, but look how happy he is! God knows where he got an ice cream van at such late notice – and why he got an ice cream van. But here he is.

So, Illya hitches up the caravan to the ice cream van and locks everyone in…

And off he goes!

Hilarity™ ensues. (Please note: ‘Hilarity™’ is always to be intoned deadpan, as one imagines Illya might say it when particularly peeved after a bad day in Suburbia.)

Illya is so pleased to be finally doing something that no one cares about the threesome in the caravan. Also, he’s kinda cute in the wraparound ice-cream-man’s coat. As the speed gets up the speed of the van’s Brahms Lullaby tune, U.N.C.L.E.’s go-to music choice, also speeds up. Hilarity™. Yes. I’m sure Illya would be holding his sides were he watching this.

Oh, hey, Thrush have got themselves an ice cream van too! Must be from the Acme Ice Cream Van shop.

Illya has noticed that he’s now involved in the Great Ice Cream Chase of ’67. The music gets faster. Things are wacky. It’s very ’67. Somewhere on the other side of the Atlantic the Beatles are producing Sgt Pepper. Life is good.

Look at Illya go!

Thrush man has an ice cream grenade. Of course he does. You see, I have no idea if this vaguely George Maharis looking man is our previous Thrush man or another one. See what I said about faces?

I do like Illya in this coat. I like its hip-hugging nature.

Those ice lollies double as coshes.

Ouch.

It’s around the point of the ice cream chase that the episode starts to pale for me; maybe because there’s no more cosy suburban intimacy with Napoleon and Illya. But we do get to see Napoleon attempting to do a kind of funky hand dance to Willoughby’s Chopin recital. I love Napoleon’s hands. Anyway, Napoleon is here to follow up on the rather stronger idea that Willoughby is Rutter, instead of the weasely estate agent who reminds me of Frank from M*A*S*H. 

So, Napoleon tries to persuade Willoughby that he should come back to U.N.C.L.E. with his theory. He knows now that he’s Rutter. There’s no point in denying it. Rutter’s colleague has published an article concluding that Rutter’s theory is incorrect, so now Rutter feels safe, and he thinks he can leave this suburban hell hole. I’m not sure why Rutter thinks he’s safe, when it’s quite demonstrable that a lot of people don’t believe his theory is incorrect.

 

Anyway, poor Illya has been captured, and is in some kind of underground suburbia bunker. It doesn’t surprise me at all that there are sinister things like this in suburbia. But Thrush have neglected to take his communicator. Sloppy work, Thrush. Illya is still peeved. Peeved is his base setting in this episode. Still stimming like crazy, twiddling his communicator in his fingers as he talks to Napoleon peevishly about what’s happened.

Illya is unbearably cute in this coat.

Next Napoleon calls up Waverly to discuss getting Rutter somewhere safe. But now Rutter knows about innocent people being taken prisoner he’s got other ideas. Oh, Napoleon. I’m guessing Napoleon has never needed to get school averse children into school. Rule One. Never Lose Sight Of The Child. While Napoleon’s back is turned, Rutter is sneaking out…

Back in the cell, Thrush finally come to take Illya’s communicator, and Illya gets slapped. Poor baby.

Having told Barkley that he’s either Rutter or dead, Barkley is pretending to be Rutter by writing out the formula for calculating the interest on a 30 year mortgage. Impressively, Miss Witherspoon recognises this for what it is. She’s not stupid. Lucky Barkley gets a shot in his behind which would put him in agony if he had Humboldt’s Syndrome. So they know it’s not him now. Witherspoon kind of wants to spank him. Of course she does.

Napoleon’s off trying to borrow a Willoughby from Betsy this time. Betsy lies and tells him she doesn’t know where he is, when, in fact, he’s inside her house, where she’s convinced she’s hiding him from the Czechoslovakian police. He’s escaped from the room above Betsy’s garage, where Napoleon was standing with him, to Betsy’s house, and in that time Napoleon has lost him. Good going, Napoleon.

But then Napoleon witnesses Thrush stealing Betsy and Willoughby/Rutter. Thrush are being better at their job than him.

Napoleon is in the bushes thinking about the life choices that led him to this point.

Luckily Napoleon follows them to Witherspoon’s place, where Hilarious™ suburbia-typical shenanigans occur, with the suburbia-typical nosy neighbour (trust me, this is accurate) watches Napoleon breaking into the house and calls the police.

Meanwhile, Witherspoon has Rutter and Betsy and Witherspoon is gloating over her successes. She’s a gloaty sort. It turns out that Rutter has memorised his formula as a series of notes on a piano, and he needs a piano to recall it.

Napoleon is sneaking. He’s here for Illya of course. The rest don’t matter.

In the sitting room there’s a tv showing closed circuit footage of Illya’s cell, where Illya is trying to break out and gets slammed against the wall by the door when they throw Barkley back into the cell. This TV will also be the scene of much Hilarity™.

In order to make sure Rutter does as he’s told, Betsy has been taken off and strapped to a chair, and is being slapped. She will be tortured, of course, in a scenario that probably has a whole forum dedicated to it, like the forum I once found dedicated to women in quicksand. This would be a forum dedicated to woman tortured by over-heating. You can find me in this forum some evenings when my mother still has three tops on and everyone else is fainting on the floor as the stove glows red. The scene of Rutter trying to find the tune and Betsy being tortured is pretty tedious. At least, it is when you just want to be looking at Illya and Napoleon, preferably in suburban bliss bickering about the cooking.

There must be a kinky forum for images like this, surely?

Just after Napoleon finds the hidden door behind the bookcase, the police arrive.

Napoleon descends my Favourite Staircase In The World Ever. I love this staircase, and its yellow lighting.

Look at this gorgeous guy questing in search of his beloved.

The police find the CCTV, and there’s more Hilarity™ as they settle down to watch it thinking they’re watching a fake fight in an old movie they’ve seen before. Of course what we’re watching is Illya generally being knocked around (it’s frustrating having to watch these scenes on the tv screen) and then –

Napoleon to the rescue!!!

I’m sure O’Reilly and O’Mulligan, or whatever we might want to call them, from Stupid Cops Inc, are both signed up to the Heated Ladies Forum.

Rutter is still trying to find the right tune and Napoleon and Illya are running around the maze of passages. Illya thinks one way, Napoleon the other.

They go Napoleon’s way, and Illya is peeved. Again. But he follows Napoleon because he loves him.

At last Rutter puts in the right formula, and Witherspoon is over the moon. ‘I’m master of the world!’

As Betsy is released from her torture and returned to the room where Rutter is, Napoleon and Illya catch sight of this. Illya is punched in the face immediately on entering the room, but this is a prettier image than that.

Much fighting ensues. Illya even hits a woman, but for some reason never picks up the gun that she drops.

‘Get off my Napoleon, you bastard!’ (Meanwhile, Witherspoon sneaks out.)

Witherspoon runs straight into the long arms of the law. Obviously running inside is a crime, so they grab her.

Meanwhile, Rutter thinks he’s dying and manages to persuade Napoleon and Illya to destroy the computer for the good of mankind. It’s very nice of them to try to honour his last request, but it’s not really on their mission briefing.

Pretty men considering Rutter’s words.

Illya destroys the computer with one of Napoleon’s money clip bombs. I always wonder about the money in these. Is it supposed to be real or fake? I also wonder about what goes through the actors’ minds. There have been quite a few of these ‘just stand here right by this big explosion’ moments in this episode.

Anyway, it’s all over, and Rutter isn’t dead after all. He’s in hospital, and Waverly, Illya, Napoleon, and Betsy are all visiting. I would imagine that Waverly is quite pissed off at how this mission has gone. Rutter is claiming amnesia, and his boys were borderline incompetent through most of the mission, culminating in destroying the very thing they were sent to recover. Illya is standing right at the back in a pose reminiscent of his approach to suburbia in the first scenes. It’s a kind of ‘if I stand back it won’t get me’ pose.

Anyway, Rutter is going to stay on in Peaceful Haven (is he mad?), he remembers nothing of the formula, and he’s sticking to music. Napoleon mentions that it’s almost dinner. Rutter recommends a lovely Danish restaurant. Witness Illya’s face.

Never cross an angry Illya. Never. It’s his last night in the suburbs and he’s going to make the most of it.

He’ll make that damn soufflé if it’s the last thing he does, even if he has to put up with Betsy as a house guest. She’ll go home eventually, right?

From Rutter’s reaction I’m starting to wonder if this is some gay 60s slang I don’t know about.

In response, Napoleon taps himself right over the heart. There’s some meaning in this that needs to be drawn out. Look at that eye contact. Look at these two men. God. They’re going home and by god Illya is going to make something that rises beautifully and tastes delicious.

FINIS