HUNTING the KGB Killers (C4, Monday) told the story of the murder of Alexander Litvinenko, framing it as a tense Cold War thriller, but his death was also desperately sad and those two elements,thrills and sadness, sat uncomfortably together. The title of the documentary was your first warning that Channel 4 was going to portray this story as one of Hollywood-level espionage and murder. KGB Killers? The KGB doesn’t exist any more and didn’t at the time of Litvinenko’s death in 2006. It was a product of the Soviet Union. The KGB’s Russian successor has the bland name of Federal Security Service (FSB), but that doesn’t emit the same Cold War chill and would fail to give the show’s title a nifty alliteration.

Pinning the word “KGB” on to this story was designed to make us think we were in a James Bond yarn, and the Red Menace was cranked up a notch by the incidental music.

One of the Scotland Yard detectives who was on the trail of Litvinenko’s murderers, Clive Timmons, seemed swept up in the dramatic aspects, referencing James Bond and Cluedo, and he looked gleeful at being involved in this spectacular case.

Perhaps he just has a very smiley persona, but his keen and chirpy style was aggravating and suggested he was overawed.

So what was the story behind the drama? Alexander Litvinenko was a former KGB officer who became concerned about corruption in the service, and suspected Vladimir Putin was abusing his power.

With tremendous courage, he became a whistleblower, and was promptly jailed. On his release he and his family sought political asylum in Britain and they made a new life in the safety of London.

Litvinenko, known as Sasha to his friends, continued to expose corruption and abuse in Russia, with Putin his main target. His relentless courage was awesome because he knew he was “making powerful and ruthless enemies.”

After a clandestine meeting with some foreign gentlemen, Litvinenko fell ill. He took himself to hospital and alerted the doctors to the probable cause: he feared he had been poisoned by Russian agents. Ulcers soon appeared in his throat. He could no longer eat or drink. Scotland Yard were summoned, but they first had to work out, “was it a criminal mystery or a medical mystery?”

The doctors were baffled as to why their patient was wilting so fast, losing his hair and getting weaker. Eventually, a “living autopsy” was carried out, and Litvinenko’s samples sent to Aldermaston, where Britain builds its nuclear weapons. The results were shocking. Polonium 210 was found, “the most toxic substance known to man”, and Litvinenko had ingested it at “a million times the lethal dose.” He died a slow and terrible death in his hospital bed, bravely allowing photographs to be taken of him in his ravaged state to show that secretive foreign killings using radioactive material can happen on the civilised streets of London. The famous photo of him propped against his pillows is dreadful and immensely powerful, yet this documentary chose to dramatise his last moments. The sight of a bald actor lying in a hospital bed is weak and silly compared to the famous photo of Litvinenko himself.

As with the urge to James Bondify the story, the dramatisation was unnecessary. We don’t need scary music or references to Cold War thrillers to remind us this story is awful and terrifying.

The programme kept jabbing us in the ribs, as if to say: “James Bond, eh? Soviet spies, eh? Scary, innit?”

This unnecessary melodrama was balanced by Litvinenko’s widow, Marina, who is fearlessly campaigning for justice. She spoke with quiet dignity of her brave and handsome Sasha. This film would have done well to have followed her lead and dropped the silly dramatisations and schoolboy fascination with Soviet baddies.

The story needs no elaboration: it is sufficiently deadly and alarming.

WE were all supposed to be sad that Broadchurch (STV, Monday) has ended forever. I say we should be glad it had a dignified death and didn’t stumble on and on into dramatic dementia. This last series wisely veered away from the weepy Latimer family, yet couldn’t quite break with them completely. Neither could it sever ties with all the other hangers-on of the town, such as the goody two-shoes vicar and the crusading local newspaper editor who brought with her some heart-stopping storylines about the state of provincial journalism and the rise of clickbait.

Yawn. I know Broadchurch is about the town, not just a collection of individuals in it, but if you’re going to herd them all into the story, give them something to say.

When we managed to shake off the local yokels, the central story was excellent, and the acting from Julie Hesmondhalgh and Olivia Colman was brilliant, even if the script demanded Colman telegraph her disgust at men too vividly.

The script was written in bold primary colours: men are BAD and women are VICTIMS but STRONG so everything will be FINE.

This lack of subtlety made the story feel like a public information film, albeit one which I looked forward to every week, and quietly admit I will miss.

I MUST give a shout-out to Hospital People (BBC1, Friday) even though I can’t actually shout as I’m still in shock. I’m shocked that a decent comedy has appeared on BBC1 on a Friday night.

It’s a mockumentary where we meet the staff of a local hospital, all of whom are played by Tom Binns, although he’ll be supplemented by various famous faces throughout the series.

I actually laughed, and on a Friday! Shocked indeed.